Wedding photos capture a lot of things they shouldn’t. Including Susan’s husband Russell necking with one of his colleagues. Susan goes ahead with her plans for Russell’s birthday, plans that include a Japanese sword he’s always wanted. Only this sword possesses something extra—a talent for revenge.
“The Japanese Sword” by World Fantasy award-winning author Kristine Kathryn Rusch is free on this website for one week only. The story’s also available as an ebook on Amazon, Kobo, iBooks, Barnes & Noble, and from other online retailers.
The Japanese Sword
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Russell liked all things Japanese. So it should probably have come as no surprise that he would fall for Kuri Tsunoda. She was everything that Susan was not.
Kuri Tsunoda was petite.
She was pretty.
And she was Japanese. A professor of Ancient Japanese Literature, she became—just that year—a full professor at the university.
Russell was the head of Asian Studies, as he told anyone he met—cabbies, waitresses, and the occasional colleague from a different school. He’d worked his way up from Assistant Professor of Japanese Studies into creating an entire department, and, Susan thought, he never gave credit where credit was due.
Credit, she knew, belonged to Shogun. The book appeared in the late 1970s and became a bestseller, but the 1980s miniseries took the Department of Asian Studies from a three-man team—one professor (Russell) handling all things Japanese, another handling all things Chinese, and the last handling anything else he could label Asian—to a department with over 20 professors and at least two visiting professors. Russell became the head due to longevity, not any particular aptitude for administration.
He had hired Kuri Tsunoda. Her classes focused on Ancient Japanese literature of the Heian Period. Oddly enough, most of that literature was written by women—and even more oddly (or maybe it wasn’t odd at all) most of those books dealt with extra-marital affairs.
Susan had heard that Kuri was the most dynamic professor on campus. Her classes went from 20 the first semester to 100 the second. She needed two graduate assistants to help her with the workload, and by the end of it all, she had managed to have several lecture classes and four intimate upper class seminars.
On Susan’s worst days, she used to wonder if the intimate upper class seminars were actually about technique. She could almost see Kuri, dressed as Geisha, conducting the damn class with hands-on examples.
But that was after. After the initial embarrassment. After the wedding. After everyone got to see Susan’s humiliation for themselves.
***
The first phone call came three days after the wedding.
The wedding was between Dominick Constable and Serena de Bary, both of whom were independently wealthy, and both of whom had been famously uncatchable for decades. It didn’t hurt that both were also extremely attractive and extremely popular. The entire town knew them, not just the university community.
Some estimates claimed 2,000 people came to that wedding. But based on the size of the church (which seated only 900) and the reception hall, the number was probably closer to 1,000.
Of course, Susan and Russell went. They’d known Serena and Dominick for decades. In fact they’d all met right around the time Shogun first aired.
Back then, none of them were famous. Now, only Susan had failed to make her reputation on the local stage. Of course, becoming famous was difficult when you took the housewife route. She supposed she could have been a long-term president of the PTA or a children’s rights advocate, but she had chosen to raise her children quietly, keep a beautiful home, and enjoy her life.
Russell, on the other hand, was well-known locally, but he was still striving for national attention—although to hear him talk about it you’d think he was known in all four corners of the earth.
Serena and Dominick were famous. Really famous. As famous as professors could get and still remain professors. They traveled all over the world to conferences, giving lectures, and sometimes receiving coveted guest professorships.
Susan wasn’t envious. Russell was.
He vowed to be as famous as they were, but so far, all of his attempts to achieve that sort of fame had failed.
The phone call that shattered her little dream of domestic bliss came after The Wedding. Apparently, Serena and Dominick’s wedding planner—an energetic, organized (and amazingly annoying) thirty-something—had e-mailed wedding photos to anyone who had asked for them.
Susan hadn’t asked. She never looked at her own wedding photos; why would she want to look at someone else’s? She had, in fact, forgotten about the offer to e-mail them, since it had been just a check-off on the RSVP, along with a choice of roast beef, chicken or vegan entrees.
Apparently, though, half the town had requested those photos. Which surprised her. After the first call, anyway. By the fifth call, she’d come to expect it.
The first call came from her best friend, Melody Anders.
“Sue?” Melody said when Susan picked up the phone. “Have you gotten your e-mail yet?”
“Nooo,” Susan said. She had been baking chocolate chip cookies for her son’s high school football team. The boys usually went through three dozen in less than five minutes. She didn’t mind; she felt it was her duty to keep them in sugar and chocolate chips—especially when they were leaving that night for an away game. They needed food for the bus trip.
“Well,” Melody said, “I got the wedding photos and there’s one you have to see.”
“I don’t have to see wedding photos,” Susan said. “They’re all the same, even if the couple is überfamous and—”
“You have to see this,” Melody said. “Stay on the line. You’re going to need to talk to me after you see it.”
Not even that comment had warned Susan that something was amiss. She’d thought that Melody was going to share a laugh—maybe a bit of skin that shouldn’t have shown or, even better, a roll of fat that no one had known existed.
Susan cradled the phone in one flour-covered hand and went to the family computer. There she tapped in her login and waited as her mail downloaded.
“I don’t have wedding photos,” she said, only now remembering that she had never requested them.
“Damn,” Melody said. “Let me send this.”
Over the phone, she heard a bell as Melody’s e-mail program mailed the letter.
“Now try,” Melody said.
Susan downloaded her mail again. Melody’s letter—if it could be called that—landed on top of a wad of spam. Susan clicked it open. Melody hadn’t typed anything in the body of the e-mail. All she had done was attach a single photo.
The photo covered Susan’s screen. The bride and groom stood arm-in-arm with friends from the bride’s academic department. The professors were holding champagne flutes and laughing.
“So?” Susan said. “It’s nice. I’m going to go now. I have to take some cookies out of the oven.”
Melody made an odd sound like a combination sigh and raspberry. “Look in the background. Zoom in if you have to.”
Susan peered behind the gaggle of professors. Other guests were mingling, some looking at presents, and two—
Her breath caught.
Two were necking furiously. Even from a distance, she could see the pale flesh of the man’s hand on the woman’s torso, and the pale flesh of her hand on his buttocks.
She smiled and almost said something disparaging like “What will people do at weddings?” when she realized she recognized those buttocks.
They were Russell’s.
She zoomed in farther.
The man was definitely Russell. And the woman was definitely not Susan.
“Who is that?” Susan asked in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own.
“I’ll send you the before- and after-shots,” Melody said. “You do recognize the man, right?”
Of course she recognized the man. But it took three more photographs before her mind accepted that the woman kissing her husband so professionally was actually Kuri Tsunoda.
A woman that pretty wouldn’t make out in public with a man as homely as Russell. He was balding, for heaven’s sake. He had what he called a paunch, but which could more accurately be called a beer belly (or two beer bellies). He laughed too hard at his own jokes. He was pompous and silly and—
He was cheating on her.
Susan sat down in front of the computer, trying to sort through her conflicting emotions.
Embarrassment—that was the first emotion she felt. Embarrassment that everyone who went to the wedding and asked for the photos would see this.
Disgust—not at Russell, but at Kuri, for being attracted to Russell.
And, following on the heels of that emotion, an odd sense of wonder: Shouldn’t she have been disgusted at Russell for being attracted to such a young woman? Shouldn’t Susan have wondered what Russell saw in Kuri instead of what Kuri saw in Russell?
Was that indicative of a larger issue?
“Susan?” Melody asked. “Are you all right?”
“The cookies are burning,” Susan said, and hung up.
The cookies weren’t burning. They had given up burning a long time ago. Now they were hardened little crisps. They had destroyed the cookie sheet and covered her kitchen in a blanket of smoke. The smoke alarm hadn’t gone off. That didn’t surprise her either. Changing the smoke alarm batteries was one of Russell’s few jobs around the house; of course he hadn’t done it.
She aired out the kitchen, finished making cookies, and deleted the e-mails. She answered another e-mail from her oldest son, who was at away at college, fended off two more phone calls about the pictures, and made Russell his dinner, leaving it in the fridge like she often did on weeknights when he was going to come home late.
(And now she knew why he was coming home late. She shook her head, banishing that little thought. Little thoughts like that were insidious. She didn’t need insidious little thoughts in her own head.)
When the cookies had cooled enough, she put them in the Tupperware she had gotten for her own wedding twenty-five years before, and took them to her son’s football practice. She asked him if he had everything for the trip (he did) and kissed him good-bye, despite his grimace warning her away from public displays of affection in front of his team.
Then she did what any good American did when distressed.
She went shopping.
***
Two weeks before, Russell had told her he wanted only one thing for his birthday—a Japanese sword.
And not just any Japanese sword. This one was an antique sword from the Tokugawa Shogunate, one of the first few made after Japan banned the use of European guns.
When Russell had asked for the sword, Susan had protested: How could she find such a valuable thing? And he had given her a card—Lavell’s Cutlery—Swords, Knives, and Bayonets for All Occasions. She had thought it a joke until she’d stumbled across the store at the local mall a week later. Lavell’s actually existed, and had a rather lovely storefront.
She clutched the card like a lifeline. Before she had seen the stupid photograph, she had planned to buy the sword on this night. She was going to continue with her plans, no matter what Russell had done.
Still…the stupid photograph made her wonder if the request for the sword wasn’t some kind of test. Had he asked Kuri for the exact same present?
Was he trying to see who was willing to spend the most money on him (and his inflated ego)?
And how many ancient swords could there be in Middle America, especially ancient swords from the Tokugawa Shogunate?
Susan doubted there could be more than one.
And she doubted that one would be authentic.
Still, she drove to the mall, parked, and walked inside through the food court. Her plan had been to eat a nice dinner, do some browsing, and buy her husband his sword, gift-wrapping it (if, indeed, one could gift wrap a sword) and hiding it until that special day.
But as she stepped inside the mall, and the scents of greasy hamburgers, mediocre Chinese food, and unbelievably delicious pizza hit her, she stopped and grabbed the wall.
What was she doing? By now, half the town—and probably all of the university—had seen that damn photograph. She should be angry. She should be hiring a lawyer. She should be doing anything except shopping for her husband’s birthday present.
But she felt compelled to stay to her schedule. It was all that she knew.
However, instead of ordering the low-fat (and wretched) Mexican food so that she could keep the figure Russell said he admired, she bought herself a piece of that amazingly good pizza and ate it standing up. Then she went to Cinnabon and ordered two giant Cinnabons. She couldn’t eat all of that, but not for lack of trying.
She washed it all down with a chocolate latte and didn’t even feel bloated.
She used a Sani-Wipe to clean off her fingers, then headed to Lavell’s with the single-mindedness of a toddler chasing a puppy.
At first glance, Lavell’s looked like any other high-end mall shop. It had rich wood paneling and red velvet covering its displays. Silverware sets—made of real, gleaming silver—graced the windows, along with some ornate silver chalices and ornate silver candlesticks.
Still, the sign said cutlery, even though there wasn’t any cutlery visible—aside from the steak knives that went with the silverware sets.
But she stepped inside anyway.
The interior smelled faintly of coffee and silver polish. The silverware in its velvet cases lined the tables dotting the middle of the shop. Silver items of all kinds, from small statues to earring sets, decorated the front.
But the far wall was glassed in, and behind that wall of glass (complete with lock) were knives. And they weren’t kitchen knives either, but knives that looked like they meant business.
She recognized a variety of Swiss Army knives and a Bowie knife from the pictures she’d see in books. But the rest looked older and more lethal. In fact, they looked so lethal that part of her would wager they had already been used—lethally.
“May I help you?” The male voice was unctuous, just like she would have expected (had she thought about it), but it still made her start.
She turned to find a pear-shaped man with doughy white skin lurking behind the counter. Behind him were the swords. There were rapiers and broadswords, swords with lovely carvings and swords with ornate blades. There were jeweled hilts and carved cases and swords so big that only a giant could wield them.
She cleared her throat as she stared, realizing that she had no idea what an antique Japanese sword from the Tokugawa Shogunate looked like.
“Um,” she said as she stepped forward. “My husband says you sell antique Japanese swords.”
The pear-shaped man squinted at her, as if sizing her up. “Would this sword be for you?”
Of course it would be for me, you moron, she nearly snapped at him. My husband has no honor. He does not deserve a sword.
She shook the thought away, startled at its strength, its vehemence, and its alien tone.
“No,” she said. “It’s for my husband. He wants an antique Japanese sword for his birthday. Something from the Tokugawa Shogunate?”
The pear-shaped man tilted his round head. “We’ve only had one inquiry into such a sword and the couple….”
He clearly had second thoughts before finishing the sentence. The couple, he probably was going to say, was an older man and a petite Japanese woman, clearly in love.
Susan clenched her fists, then slowly released them. “Do you have that kind of sword?”
“Of course,” he said, “but it is expensive.”
Expense was no object. Russell may have been a full professor who barely published enough to get tenure, and she may have been “only” a housewife, but she had managed their finances into a tidy nest egg—not counting the boys’ college funds.
She even had a small fortune set aside for presents. She loved to lavish gifts on her family—or she had. She wasn’t sure now.
But she was here. She was going to go through with this. She was going to buy Russell’s goddamn present and he was going love it.
“May I see the sword?” she asked.
The pear-shaped man frowned at her. The expression made the top of his forehead look like badly folded paper. It almost made him seem like he was wearing a mask—a mask made of fabric, instead of papier-mâché.
“It’s in the back,” he said. “Just give me a moment.”
He slid—she knew of no other way to describe that fluid movement—through red velvet curtains that separated the front of the store from the back. She almost followed him, but she didn’t.
She was barely holding on. Her schedule. Her plans. Her self-control. She glanced at the knives on the wall. They gleamed, except for the Bowie knife. Blood dripped off the blade.
She gasped and turned away.
At that moment, the pear-shaped man emerged, carrying a black case covered with carved Japanese letters. Kuri would know what the markings said, but Susan didn’t.
“I have a feeling,” said the pear-shaped man, “that a sword will not suit you.”
She clenched her fists again, and had to unclench them one finger at a time. She’d taught that trick to her sons, so that they wouldn’t speak until they were calm.
She wasn’t quite calm, but she was calmer. “The sword is not for me,” she said again. “It’s for my husband.”
“Still.” The pear-shaped man slid a silver chalice toward her. “Perhaps this would be better. It is quite lovely. Should it be filled with red wine and served, the drinker shall fall in love with the server. It’s a bit of small magic, not quite a love potion, yet something that can rekindle a lost relationship.”
Rekindle. Lost. She shuddered. She didn’t want to rekindle anything. Part of her was relieved Russell spent his evenings with Kuri. Maybe part of her had been relieved from the beginning. Maybe she would have remained relieved if he hadn’t flagrantly and without regard to others sucked face with that woman in a public venue—with their friends around, no less. In front of a goddamn photographer.
“No,” she said, pushing the chalice back.
“Or perhaps this ring,” the pear-shaped man said. “It binds the wearer—”
“I want the sword,” she said.
He sighed and opened the case. The sword gleamed. It looked wicked.
It looked sharp.
“It is handmade, as anything from that period would be, and the blade is honed fine. It has been authenticated….”
He droned on, but she didn’t listen. Instead, she ran a single finger over the flat part of the blade and it hummed, the way a crystal Champaign flute would hum if she ran her finger around the edge.
Except this hum seemed familiar. It sang of honor. It sang of shattered dreams.
It sang of loss.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
***
She signed the receipt without looking at the price, although she did notice two digits before the comma. She didn’t even wince. Russell wanted that sword for his birthday. She would make sure he got it.
She had initially planned to wait three days until Russell’s official birthday, but by then, everything would be different. Friends of his (Did he have any? She wasn’t sure any longer.) would call him and tell him about the photograph, probably warning him to keep it away from her.
Their son might come home from the away game and see the photograph as well. What would he think of his father grabbing the breast of a woman who was only a few years older than he was? Would he feel a manly pride or would he rush to the defense of his mother?
She didn’t want to find that out either.
Which meant she had to act tonight.
On the way home, she stopped at the grocery store. If she had thought this through during the afternoon, she would have baked a cake instead of cookies—a home-baked cake always tasted better than store bought—but she doubted either of them would do much tasting.
She had the baker etch “Happy Birthday, Russell” in the top in blood red. It looked lovely, although not quite as lovely as “Enjoy Your Last Birthday, Asshole,” would have looked.
Still, “Enjoy Your Last Birthday, Asshole,” might have tipped Russell off to her mood, and she didn’t want to tip him off.
She knew how to dress the house up for a celebration—an adult celebration. She placed an old rug on the dining room floor near the family’s computer. She took the plastic handcuffs from the bedroom and hung them from the back of a dining room chair. Then she wrapped a bow around the sword’s box. She cleaned and set the table, putting out the finest china. Finally, she put the cake in the center on its cake plate, with the sharpened cake knife sitting crosswise on the table before the plate.
She turned on the computer, downloaded the photograph again, and made that the screen saver. It was an excellent photograph. It could almost be something on a birthday card—the kind you gave a lover—For your birthday, a full frontal snogging… and then inside …with someone you barely know…
The computer had the software to create such a card. She’d made cards before. But she doubted her husband—who loved all things Japanese—would understand the British slang.
He really was woefully uneducated. He’d become an expert in something only a handful of graduate students cared about. He never read books set in the United States. He barely read books at all. The only movies he saw, besides the Japanimation he made her watch, were subtitled Japanese films.
When had he gotten so dull? Or had he always been that way? Had she taken his fascination with Shogun and all things Japanese as a sign of intelligence?
What was it Serena had said at her bridal shower? Someone had asked her why she had waited to get married. She had smiled and said, Men who seem interesting at twenty are often exactly the same at fifty. And what’s fascinating in a twenty-year-old is pathetic in a fifty-year-old. I wanted a man who lived his life, not studied someone else’s. But to get that, I had to wait…
Susan shivered. Then she sat at the table and waited for her husband to come home.
***
He didn’t arrive until ten-fifteen, filled with apologies and too much wine. Was that lipstick on his collar? Or just red sauce from the dinner he had eaten despite one waiting for him in the fridge?
She didn’t care. Instead, she smiled at him as if nothing were wrong.
“I thought,” she said, “since Trevor has an away game, we could celebrate your birthday tonight.”
Did Russell shudder? She couldn’t tell. But she could tell from his expression that he was going to beg off. So she led him into the dining room, so that he would see the trouble she had gone to.
He smiled at her when he saw the dressed-up dining room. He touched the handcuffs and this time, his smile seemed genuine.
He hadn’t yet seen the screen saver on the computer.
It would only be a matter of time.
She had planned on some coffee, some cake, a bit of conversation, but she found she couldn’t wait.
Instead, she picked up the cake knife.
“Put on the handcuffs,” she said.
He blinked at her. She understood his confusion. He had never worn them. He had always insisted she wear them. She was used to them now, but in the beginning she had struggled.
He had liked that.
She gripped the knife harder.
“Sue,” he said, and in that tone, she heard complaint.
She understood each tone to his voice, shorthand from twenty-five years of marriage.
But he knew her tones as well, and she used one now. The one she’d used with the boys. The one that said, Screw up and I’ll hurt you.
“All right,” she said. “Put the handcuffs on your left wrist. We’ll worry about your right later, if we need to.”
He frowned at her, but did as he was told.
Then he stood behind his chair, staring at the cake.
“Your present,” she said, sliding the sword toward him.
His face lit up when he saw it. He untied the bow, and opened the case. The sword caught the light, looking brilliant, looking strong.
The sword of a samurai warrior.
She could hear it humming.
“I didn’t think you’d buy it, Susan,” he said in his warmest voice. “I didn’t think you’d realize what an investment it is. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said. “Take a look at my birthday present first.”
He kept looking at the sword.
“Russell!” she snapped.
He brought his head up.
She pointed to the computer. The image moved slowly, like one of those documentary images where the camera came in closer so that you could see the detail.
His face reddened.
Someone had tipped him off to this, the bastard.
“Ah, I can explain,” he said.
“I don’t need an explanation,” she said. “You have dishonored our family. There is only one answer for dishonor.”
She reached into the box, and lifted the sword by its hilt. The sword moved cleanly and elegantly in her hand.
She felt like a warrior. She felt strong and powerful.
“Get on your knees,” she said.
A bead of sweat ran down Russell’s face. “Susan—”
“I don’t have to explain this to you,” she said. “The only answer for such a serious dishonor is to kill yourself. We shall follow the ritual. I will be your second. If you don’t succeed in killing yourself with this sword, I will take it and behead you. Then the family honor will be restored.”
“Susan,” he said, “that’s crazy talk, and you know it. Americans don’t commit seppuku. Heck, I don’t even think the Japanese do any more.”
She didn’t care. It would be easy to behead him with this sword. One swift movement and his head would tumble toward the living room, on that slight downhill slope to the floor that she had begged him to fix for the past ten years.
“On your knees,” she said.
She pointed to the rug. Beneath it, she had put down some plastic sheeting. It wouldn’t be enough, but it would take care of the bulk of the mess.
“Susan, be reasonable,” he said.
“Get. Down.”
He did.
“I’ll give you the sword if you promise to go through the ritual,” she said. “In case you don’t remember, you take the hilt in your dominant hand, turn the tip of the blade toward you, then carve yourself open from one side of your gullet to the other. Should the pain and blood loss fail to kill you, I, as your second, will complete the job.”
“You are not my second,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I thought I was your only.”
He frowned at her. “Susan, seriously, this is insane.”
The blade hummed in her hand. It moved toward him on its own.
“Take the sword,” she said.
“No one does this,” he said. “No one ever did it. It’s a myth. Scholars now believe—”
“Scholars?” she asked. “People like you?”
“Yes, but—”
“People like Kuri?”
He closed his mouth.
She handed him the sword. His hands trembled, but he turned the blade toward his stomach.
“Susan,” he said softly, “do you realize the kind of strength this takes? I’m a professor. I can’t cut open a fish, let alone—”
“A fish belly,” she finished for him.
He wasn’t going to do it. She could tell. He wasn’t even man enough to turn the blade on her. He could have backed her into a corner if he wanted, but he was shaking, near tears, and pathetic.
The father of her sons.
Sons.
Every family wanted sons. Manly sons, strong sons. Sons who would be ashamed of the adulterous dishonorable creature on the floor who didn’t have the strength to take his own life.
She snatched the sword back from him. She wouldn’t even have to tell him to handcuff his hands together.
She had brought out the handcuffs because she had been expecting a fight.
Instead, his lower lip was trembling. Tears were pooling in his eyes. His nose was red.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said. “She was just so beautiful. I couldn’t help myself. She was so—”
“Japanese,” Susan said.
“Yes,” he said with relief. “See? That’s why I love you. Because you understand.”
She set down the knife, but she kept her grip on the sword. Then she reached down and grabbed his left hand. She grabbed his right hand and pulled it next to his left hand. It took her only a moment to snap the handcuffs closed.
“Susan!”
She’d never heard that tone before. Pure panic. Sheer terror.
She felt a power she’d never felt before. The samurai who had owned this sword had probably heard that panic. Maybe he had even reveled in the terror. But he had never misused it.
She grabbed her husband by the back of the neck and moved him closer to the computer. She pointed at the image.
“You have dishonored all of us,” she said. “You do not deserve this family.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t. I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to you—”
“Then stay on your knees, your back straight, and look forward like a man,” she said. “If you can’t take care of the dishonor for yourself, I will take care of it for you.”
She moved behind him, holding the sword in both hands. It gave her a confidence she’d never had before, as if it guided her.
She spread her legs and bent her knees. The sword felt like natural in her hands. She switched it to her right hand, holding it lightly—
And then she swung.
Russell screamed.
The blade flew toward him, scraping the top of his balding head, removing some skin and more hair than she would have expected before implanting itself in the computer screen.
It caught his image in the chest and it looked like that hand—the hand clutching Kuri’s breast—fluttered in pain. Kuri’s image leaned back, screaming, before the computer blew up.
Sparks and smoke went everywhere.
Russell ducked, cursing, and clutching the top of his head.
The entire wall was black from the explosion.
But the sword’s blade remained pure whitish silver, gleaming in the light.
“Happy goddamn birthday, you fucking asshole,” Susan said, and stalked out of the house.
***
Later, her friends said she was justified. Hell, the entire town believed her justified.
Even her sons sided with her.
“I wouldn’t have impaled his image, Mom,” said her youngest. “I’d’ve stabbed something else.”
She hadn’t even thought of that. She hadn’t thought of much about that night. Later, she would say she was just reacting, but it hadn’t felt like she was reacting.
It had felt like she was driven.
Half of her friends said rage could do that to a woman. The other half claimed the sword possessed her. Swords like that had legends, they said, and that sword in particular had a reputation for maintaining honor among the family members of its owner.
She’d snorted when she had heard that.
But part of her—the skeptical part—got shaken when she tried to return the sword to Lavell’s. Lavell’s wasn’t there. In its place was a bridal registry, one that claimed it had been in that location for more than 30 years.
Surely, she hadn’t conjured up Lavell’s on her own. She had the business card.
And she had the sword.
Or the police did. They kept it as evidence in case Russell pressed charges. Although they had told him not to, since any jury would take one look at that photo (that series of photos, really) and think that Susan had been pretty lenient with that sword.
Still, they weren’t going to return it to her.
“Trust me,” one of the detectives said, “you restored the family’s honor. You don’t need the sword any more.”
She wasn’t sure she had restored honor. But she certainly got acclaim—and about one week of instant fame. She even became the Sword Wielding Housewife for one cover of People magazine. Her sons framed it.
She put it in the bathroom.
Of her new house. The one she’d gotten with the proceeds from the divorce. She’d made a deal with Russell (who had worn a bandage on the top of his head for a year, like a flattened turban). She could keep everything she invested and half the profits from the sale of the house; he could keep his copyrights, his Japanese collectibles, and that awful Japanese furniture he had put in his office. She would not take alimony or child support. He could walk away, with some of his possessions.
Although he was hard-pressed to find dignity.
Students kept putting the photos up on his office door. Kuri had gone back to Japan, too embarrassed to face anyone at the university again.
And Susan kept searching for Lavell’s. She owed them money. The charge had never gone through on her credit card. She had an ancient sword (albeit in police custody) and one particularly satisfying night, one she’d turned into a series of paid speeches on female empowerment.
Perhaps I took it too far, she would say in front of the dumpy crowds of frustrated women she seemed to attract at the Hiltons and Hyatts and Crowne Plazas that hosted her events. But I let it go too far. I hadn’t realized how much I was ignoring, how much dignity I had abandoned, and how it hurt not just me, but my sons…
She wasn’t sure she believed all of that crap. She still wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t bought the sword but had bought the cake that said Enjoy Your Last Birthday, Asshole.
Given Russell’s lack of courage and his complete inability to save himself, that cake might have been enough to destroy him forever.
She tried not to think of Russell very often. He was a past incident in her life, someone she thought of only when her sons smiled in a certain Russell-like way or in her fencing classes when her rubber-tipped blade bent against an opponent’s chestplate.
She would see the echo of that computer image, reacting to the sword’s point. Had that blade gone back in time and stabbed Russell through the heart?
But for that to happen, Russell had to have a heart—and she wasn’t sure he did. All Russell had ever had was an ego—and that was a lot smaller than it used to be.
Even though she had made him famous. Internationally famous. Once, in Cologne, she’d seen a montage: Russell and Kuri necking at the wedding, the sword by itself, and Russell with his makeshift turban.
The montage had made her smile.
She used her phone to take a photograph of it.
And then she e-mailed it to everyone she knew.
Copyright © 2015 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
First published in Swordplay, edited by Denise Little, Daw Books, 2009
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and Layout copyright © 2015 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © by Pixattitude/Dreamstime, Tomasz Boinski/Dreamstime
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.