UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES by Greg B. Porterfield

Still water reflects the evening sky as the rowboat drifts to a slow stop at the middle of the lake. After a moment even the drips of water from the oars calm, and the lake’s mirror returns. Color has long drained from the sky, and the cool of midnight displays a canopy of icy stars. Summer is becoming fall. 

The sound of a night loon breaks the silence as a man struggles to lift a lifeless body, wrapped in a blanket and tied with rope, over the side. 

With a low splash the body sinks into the water, leaving ripples that rock the small boat. After a moment, the two oars re-enter the water and the man rows his way back to an unlit dock. The blades part the dark water and the scraping of the oars against the rowlocks interrupt the night’s silence. 

• • •

Bill and Betty Wilson met in college at Peru State. The college, sandwiched an hour south of Omaha and two hours north of Kansas City, served as an intellectual island in the southeast corner of Nebraska. Students outnumbered town residents by more than two to one and came from other nearby small towns. To them, the college felt big and important.

Most of Peru’s homes, built in the 1920s, had grass lawns running all the way to the street. Sidewalks existed in front of half-a-dozen brick buildings that served as a downtown; streetlights were few and dim enough one could see the Milky Way at night. The tiny town of Peru offered little and expected to be left alone.

After WWII, Bill Wilson and Betty Martin enrolled at State. Bill, a history major, lived in Delzell Hall’s men’s dorm. Betty, an English major, roomed in the women’s dorm at Morgan Hall. The small campus offered an intimacy not found at larger state colleges. At the first school dance, Bill made his attraction to Betty known. 

Their undergraduate years passed with romance on the library steps after closing and on the walk back to their respective dorms. Betty Martin never felt an attraction to any other young men. They studied together nearly every night at the library, Bill at the table with piles of history volumes and Betty quietly reading.

Before college, Bill’s brief time in the Army left him well muscled and single-minded, with a goal to become a history professor while working on his Masters, then his PhD.

Gentle rolling hills and the day-to-day sameness of the Great Plains was off-putting to most outsiders. The weather—with hot summers and long, cold winters, and an expectation of rain, or lack thereof—typically occupied local conversations.

Fall football offered a break from the monotony. Peru State’s team, the Bobcats, never failed to provide the perfect diversion. Although wins were few, the spirit of the student body and the townsfolk inspired everyone. We’ll get ‘em next time!

With only one bar in town and nearly one thousand college students at Peru State, the dorms emptied out on non-football weekends. Every Friday night, crammed autos made the long drive to the active nightlife of Omaha or Lincoln.

Most weekends, Bill and Betty rode their bicycles to a small park at the edge of town and cuddled on a red-checkered blanket, dreaming of a future together. 

The day after graduation, Bill and Betty married at the community church, a dozen family members in attendance. They spent their honeymoon in Kansas City, near the Plaza. On their return, Bill started his new position in Peru’s history department. They bought a tiny house just a few blocks from campus, convenient for Bill’s new job, and by the start of school, Betty found a position at the college in the English department.

For years, Bill and Betty watched from their tiny house as students arrived and departed each semester. After nearly thirty years, the lack of surprises no longer surprised them. Betty was an essential member of the English faculty, and Bill chaired the history department. Their dream of traveling the world to visit historic locations as Betty penned one best seller after the next was exchanged for arguing over television programs and world events. Their exciting dreams became stale. Employed by the same college, in the same town, in the same tiny house for thirty years—their lives changed little—the monotony became unendurable.

“I’m completely over this.” Bill’s casual pronouncement lacked emotion.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious, Betty. Our existence has stagnated.”

“Oh, Bill. You’re just being dramatic. You’re just tired of grading papers.”

“I am. You’re right about that. I’m sick to death of grading papers. We have no life, except grading papers! I’m ... I need ...”

“What? What is it you need?”

“Oh, just forget it. This whole th ... just forget it.”

The look on Bill’s face filled Betty with misgivings, but before she could say anything, he kicked his chair back from the table and stormed from the room, grabbing his jacket off the hook by the door.

After a few hours, Bill returned home without explanation or apology.

For the next few weeks, until the end of the semester, Bill’s mood darkened to the point that Betty became fearful. He was sullen, drank heavily, and barely spoke. And when he touched her, it felt angry and left her feeling unsatisfied and dirty. Years of frustration came to a head.

Bill’s attitude carried over into the classroom, and the other professors grew alarmed but said nothing. Betty hoped that when the semester ended, Bill’s frustrating behavior would also end.

Betty decided to celebrate the last day of classes with Bill’s favorite meal. But he never came home. The eggplant parmigiana remained uneaten and a bottle of Merlot sat unopened next to two empty wine glasses. The celebration languished on the dining room table in the dark while Betty wept in the bedroom alone. At midnight she heard a car on the road in front of the house; it paused for a moment at the driveway before speeding off into the night.

After a few weeks, Betty’s attempts to find her husband proved futile. By the end of summer, her friends no longer asked about him. Bill had vanished. Her fear of him returning felt nearly as great as the thought of never seeing him again. Even the college accepted his disappearance, and the fall semester began with a new head of the history department. 

Ted Langford, the new chairman, served as Bill’s right hand for over fifteen years. Ted was nice enough, and Betty enjoyed his good-natured friendship. She eventually accepted his invitation to an afternoon theater matinee in Omaha. They had a wonderful time and agreed to go on a second outing the following weekend.

Later that night, the crunch of gravel announced a car creeping up the drive. The car’s slow advance seemed threatening and Betty, already dressed for bed, listened as the car came to a stop. Looking out the window, she made out the shape of a well-built man stealing toward the house, menace felt with each step. She locked the door and dashed to the back of the house.

The doorknob rattled. Pounding followed. A growl of frustration penetrated the room. The front door window shattered and the deadbolt clicked open. Tightly gripping a butcher knife, Betty cowered in a dark corner of the kitchen. Fear beaded on her forehead. She let out a gasp. The intruder charged into the room.

• • •

The croaking of night frogs quiets as each stroke brings the rowboat nearer to the old wooden dock. The man shivers from his task and lets the boat drift the last few feet until it comes to rest gently against the dock. With shaking hands, he ties off the stern rope and climbs out. Plunging his hands into his jacket pockets to ward off the chill, he shuffles unsteadily toward a waiting car. Behind the steering wheel, he shakes as he lights a cigarette. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he finds troubled eyes that will haunt him. He starts the car.

“Is it done, Ted?”

“Yeah, Betty. He’s gone. He’s finally gone.”