“Honor” by J. D. Horn

There was a run of three years straight when Rose’s family came out on top, and Myrna’s six feet under. But then Myrna’s family had double wins, three times over a decade. The law of averages had held true….

December 30, 1982

They settled in and gave their orders to a nervous, stocky teenager in a blue and white striped sailor’s cap, then Rose took the 2.5 inch .38 Colt Diamondback from her purse and passed it across the table to Myrna. Myrna slipped in a single round and spun the cylinder. They’d have the diner to themselves, she and Myrna, and they sat shielded by the banquet room’s accordion screen from view of the windows. Still, Myrna laid the pistol on the table and covered it—out of propriety until all staff had cleared out—with an unseasonable, bright orange scarf in a flower and butterfly print.

 “Hermès,” Myrna said, noticing Rose’s attention and mistaking it for interest. “I thought I’d bring a bit of spring along with me, in case…”

It was all very civilized, which meant the idea probably came from Myrna’s side—the “Kosher Nostra,” as the joke went. Instead of a full-out war, wiping out each other’s soldiers, weakening both sides and making themselves vulnerable to incursions by upstarts—or, worse, disrupting business—the families had agreed for a cohort of ten capos from each family to meet, once a year, until one side was gone. The idea of making it a banquet must have come from the Sicilian side. After all, no man should enter hell hungry.

The diner’s owner, a canny, tight-lipped man of Greek descent, served them himself, then scurried out and locked up, leaving a laminated sign reading, “Closed for Private Ocasion” at the diner’s entry. It was the same misspelled sign the diner had displayed for at least the last eighteen years. As far as Rose knew their annual get-together was the only private occasion the venue ever hosted. Try as she might, and she had tried now for going on two decades, she couldn’t imagine this shabby teal and chrome abattoir echoing with happy birthdays or swaying along to hormonal newlyweds’ first dance.

There was a run of three years straight when Rose’s family came out on top, and Myrna’s six feet under. But then Myrna’s family had double wins, three times over a decade. The law of averages had held true, stretching out the vendetta to this, its twentieth year. Now it came down to the two of them.

They never spoke—never would speak—of their husbands, the gutless wonders who’d left Myrna and herself to stand in their stead, after the other men executed them for their cowardice. Their husbands, they’d learned, were each taken out by two bullets, the first low, to make a point, the second high, to seal the deal.

They’d each come forward, she and Myrna. Volunteered to stand firm where their husbands had quaked. Each to guarantee continued protection and support for her children. Each to salvage the honor her husband pissed away. Friendship could never exist between them, not given the circumstances of their acquaintance, but this commonality acted as the cornerstone of a solid camaraderie. With their husbands executed, the first year was declared a draw; Myrna and she took their places the following.

For years, on the anniversary of his execution, Rose raised a glass of the cheapest chianti she could find in salute to her husband who’d gone from capo to capon with a single shot. But as time rolled forward, her shame faded, giving way to pride in herself, and, despite the enmity between families, in Myrna.

“You should put that back in your bag,” Rose said, nodding at the scarf. “It would be a shame if it got stained.”

Myrna chuckled, but she caught hold of its edge and snatched it up as if she were performing a magic act. Rose half expected a “Ta-Da!” would punctuate the gesture.

Myrna wrapped the scarf around her hair. “Why should this rag have better odds at making it out of here than I do?”

Rose couldn’t think of a single reason it should.

“Age before beauty,” Rose said, then reached for the gun. The arthritis in her thumb made it a struggle to cock the damned thing, but she managed. Her hand shaking—not from fear, never from fear, but due to the betrayal of age—she raised the muzzle to her temple. She steadied her right hand with her left. The cortisone injection would help ease the pull, but a lot of good that would do if she couldn’t keep hold of the damned thing.

Click.

Using both hands, Rose returned the pistol to the table.

The families had agreed from the outset that cleanup fell to the year’s winners—a small courtesy to the mourners. When the diner reopened tomorrow, it would be spotless, with no trace left of what went on here today.

When the diner reopened tomorrow, the debt would finally be settled, and the vendetta finished.

Myrna and she remembered the men, regardless of family affiliation, with fondness. Ironic, really, that they were all gone, but perhaps not overly so; in this matter, it had always come to ladies last. Rose suspected that neither her nor Myrna’s name ever made it into the hat from which the two to compete were drawn until it had, through elimination, become necessary two years earlier. None of the men wanted to be the one to best a woman. Death before this dishonor had been, Rose felt sure, preferable to the lot of them.

Last year Myrna faced down Enzo with such sangfroid, Rose couldn’t help but comment. Myrna joked she wasn’t worried because she’d brought her husband’s bronzed balls along for luck.

“I know you’ll think I’m…what’s your word?” Rose cast about for the term, then smiled when she found it. “Meshuga, but I’ve been looking forward to this since Labor Day.”

Myrna cocked a brow. “Really?”

Rose mimed brushing crumbs from the table, dismissing Myrna’s incredulity. “I’m not good for much anymore, but once a year, every year, for ninety minutes or so, my life has meaning. The rest, eh…not so much.”

Myrna’s eyes grazed the gun with a cool flicker but landed on Rose’s plate. “Here.” She reached across the table to take the plate. “Let me help with that.” She pulled the dish closer, then held out her hand for the serrated knife. Rose offered it, handle first, to Myrna.

Rose watched on as Myrna, with a surgeon’s speed and precision, carved the Jersey Turnpike diner shoe leather into delicate morsels. Her elegant fingers were tapered, her hands still smooth and pale—“Like porcelain,” Ralphy Gabriano, God rest his damned soul, always said—not thickly veined and mottled, with knobby, arthritic knuckles, like her own. She slid the plate back to Rose.

Myrna had gone straight to dessert, a wedge of coconut cake big enough to use as a tire chock. She scraped icing from the top and eased the fork into her mouth, narrowing her eyes like a satisfied cat as she closed her lips around its tines. She rested the fork on the plate, then pushed the cake an arm’s length away. Rose had to hand it to her. Myrna had kept her figure—once a Miss Ogunquit, always a Miss Ogunquit—although God only knew how much cinching and cantilevering, medically and garment assisted, it took to keep her tits and bits anywhere near their original latitudes.

Rose stabbed a bite of the meat but halted when Myrna said, “Oh, congratulations on Michael’s new appointment. Head of oncology. Quite impressive. You must be over the moon.”  

Rose’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. Her grandson Michael was her greatest source of pride. He made all the sacrifices—and the rest of her worthless family’s ingratitude—worth it. “Thank you. It’s kind of you to take an interest.”

“Of course.” Myrna waved Rose’s gratitude away and reached for her sweating glass of ice water. “Won’t be much of this in hell.” She took a delicate sip and then returned the glass to its place. Rose noticed Myrna left a trace of her matte nude lipstick on the glass’s rim. It was this lipstick-smeared waterglass Rose would carry back to the family as proof the vendetta was, at last, settled.

Myrna reached for the pistol, then faced Rose with a serene, almost beatific smile, as she positioned the muzzle against her temple.

“After all this time? I think it’s too late for that. Besides, you’ve taken two chances. I’ve only had one….”

Click.

She laid the gun on the table and then began to worry her thumb’s cuticle. “Speaking of grandchildren, you’ve heard about my Miriam?”

Rose shook her head, surprised by the sense of guilt that came over her. Myrna was always so good at keeping up ties. Birthday greetings and confirmation gifts, get-well cards, and wedding presents. “No,” she said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t—”

Miriam stopped her with a raised palm. A glimmer came to her eyes as her lips pursed into a pleased pucker. “Juilliard.”

Rose rested her hand over her heart. “I am so pleased. She’s such a lovely girl. Well, a woman now, isn’t she?”

Myrna nodded. “Yes. A grown woman. Not like we were at her age, though, if you know what I mean.”

“Indeed, I do.”

Rose took a bite of the steak. Chewed. Wished she could spit it out. If she were facing anyone other than Myrna, she would’ve done. Instead, she forced herself to swallow, coughing as a bit of the meat went down the wrong way.

In a flash, Myrna was behind her, patting her between the shoulder blades. An ineffectual gesture if she were actually choking, but considerate all the same. Rose threw up her hand to stop her. “Okay. I’m okay.” Rose coughed, then reached for her water.

As Myrna settled in her seat, her eyes met Rose’s, and they burst out laughing like teenagers. It took Rose a moment to catch her breath. “It would be a hell of a punchline if I choked to death.”

“Or dropped the gun and shot me.”

One way or another, they would miss this. Miss each other. Miss the tradition that had become as regular as Easter and Christmas, or if it were Myrna who survived to tell the tale, Pesach and Kol Nidre.

A thought came to her. She leaned in and placed her hand over Myrna’s. Myrna seemed surprised, but she didn’t pull away. She tilted her head inquisitively.

“Do you know?” Rose began, “I mean really know—not just the stories we tell—where this all started?”

Myrna shook her head. “I haven’t a clue. I assumed you did. You always paid much closer attention than I.”

“Maybe I did know. Once.” Rose withdrew her hand and leaned back. “But between the two of us, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“It was a matter of honor,” Myrna said hooking a finger around the strand of pearls she wore. “I mean, it must have been, right? Some offense. Real or imagined.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Rose nodded at the pearls. “Those are lovely, by the way.”

Myrna glanced down at the strand with a pleased smile. “Mikomoto,” she said, releasing the strand and patting it down against her chest. “Really, you should have them, if…”

The gesture touched Rose, and her mind raced to think of an adequate response, but she came up blank. Myrna’s eyes drifted back to the pistol.

Rose said the words she knew Myrna was thinking, “I suppose we should get on with it?”

“Yes,” Myrna replied. “Mehta’s conducting at the Philharmonic tonight.” Rose’s shock must have played out on her face. “I’d say I’m optimistic about the outcome, but the truth is I have a season ticket, and it would be a shame to let the seat go empty…if it can be helped.” She gave a gallic shrug. “But, if it can’t, the program’s mostly Strauss, so…”

It came to Rose as a wonder that she could find herself hoping Myrna made that curtain. She reached for the pistol, but rather than take it, pushed it toward Myrna. “Would you mind cocking?”

Myrna accepted the pistol and cocked it, but rather than return it, she stood and came to Rose’s side. Myrna rested one hand on Rose’s shoulder, and used the other to help steady the gun as Rose pressed its cool metal against her temple. The cold-blooded kindness brought a grateful tear to Rose’s eye.

Click.

Myrna released her shoulder, and pistol in hand, returned to her seat.

“Do you ever wish,” Rose began, “that we could just stop this? Call it a draw?”

Myrna laughed. “After all this time? I think it’s too late for that. Besides, you’ve taken two chances. I’ve only had one, and…”

“And?” Rose prompted after several seconds passed.

“Well, it’s a matter of honor, isn’t it?”

Rose nodded and reached for her fork, dropping it from surprise as Myrna—without preamble—cocked the pistol and pointed it at herself.

Click.

“Parking near the hall is difficult this time of year,” Myrna said. It took Rose a moment to realize this came as an explanation for her abruptness.

Myrna was right, it was time to end this, but she wanted one last moment with the woman in bright orange who’d brought so much color to Rose’s otherwise muted life. “May I try…?” She asked with a nod towards Myrna’s abandoned dessert.

“Please, Dear,” Myrna said pushing the plate closer to her. “No doubt it’s the only taste of heaven either of us will ever enjoy.” Her warm smile blunted the bitterness lurking beneath her words.

Unlike Myrna, Rose stabbed a large, greedy morsel and took it all in in a single mouthful. As the confection danced across her tongue, she felt a wave of anger at herself wash over her. “I can’t believe I never tried this before. Next year…” she began, but her words trailed off.

Myrna reached across the table and took her hand. “Next year, one of us in honor of the other…” She leaned back, this time it seemed, purposely not looking at the pistol.

Rose nodded. “And then burn this greasy spoon to the ground.”

Myrna, delight shining in her eyes, burst out laughing. “It’s a deal.”

Rose returned the fork to the plate. “If you’ll just help with the hammer this time. I’m sure I can manage.”

Myrna took the pistol and cocked it, then held it out, handle first, to Rose. Rose grasped it and turned it toward her temple. “Enjoy the symphony…my friend.” She pulled the trigger, horrified by the sound of the Click that followed.

Myrna held her hand out for the gun. “It’s a great seat. The ticket’s in my bag.”

This woman, Rose realized, was fearless.

But Rose feared one thing.

“Enjoy the symphony,” she repeated, then used all the strength left in her hand to pull back the hammer and swing the pistol back on herself. Myrna’s face betrayed her confusion, a belated understanding dawning too late. Myrna moved to stop her, but her finger was already pulling the trigger.

Rose never heard the Bang.

J. D. Horn is the Wall Street Journal bestselling author of the Witching Savannah series (The Line, The Source, The Void, and Jilo), the Witches of New Orleans Trilogy (The King of Bones and Ashes, The Book of the Unwinding, The Final Days of Magic), and the standalone Southern Gothic horror tale Shivaree. His novels have been translated into eight languages, and his short stories have appeared in various anthologies, as well as in Suspense and Unnerving magazines.