The Other Choir Member

He was glad his wife had her choir. It gave her something to do other than telling him what he should be doing. She was gone from the house at least twice a week for practices, about three hours each time, longer if she had coffee with someone afterward. When they had performances, there were extra practices, meetings about costuming, dress rehearsal. Hours of quiet bliss. He marked them on his calendar so he would be sure to be home to enjoy every minute. Sometimes he walked around in his underwear, drinking coffee, or eating snacks while seated on the sofa. Vicki would have a stroke if she saw him on the sofa with his potato chips and hot sauce, his feet up on the coffee table.

The two of them were also generous financial supporters of the choir. Sometimes they sponsored the outfits or paid for a guest conductor to visit. Vicki enjoyed her singing and he enjoyed his time without Vicki. It was a win-win.

Periodically, the choir would hold auditions for new members. Lake Chapala was a retirement-oriented community so people tended to move to care facilities or die, creating openings in the choir. After the last go-round, Vicki started to complain about a new choir member. Her name was Clarice and, according to Vicki, she was completely full of herself and thought she should be the soloist in every number. Instead of returning from practice humming a happy tune, Vicki returned seething with vitriol. The complaints about Clarice never ended — her outlandish manicures, her high heels, the evidence of plastic surgery, her off-key singing. A few times after practice, Vicki and two of her pals went out to complain about Clarice. They debated talking to the choir director even thinking he was smitten with Clarice. “He’s gay for God’s sake, how could he be smitten with her?!” Vicki had shouted.

The day Vicki returned from practice crying and saying she thought she might have to quit, her husband knew it was time to take action. He’d never be able to eat his snacks on the sofa again if he didn’t get this resolved. And he would get it resolved, one way or another. He started asking probing questions about Clarice. Was she married? Where did she live? Where was she from? What was her last name?

A few hours of looking at Clarice’s FaceBook and Instagram told him all he needed to know. The woman was a menace, a hideous, self-involved menace. She complained about everything and posted those duck-lip selfies like his granddaughters did. It was disgusting.

She drove a small black SUV and lived in a gated community called “Vista Del Norte.” It should be called “Vista Dinero,” he thought, after seeing the home prices. This rich entitled duck-face was making Vicki’s life miserable and it had to stop. He started to know her routines. She walked to the market on Wednesdays in her capri pants, espadrilles, and pink sun hat. She’d buy a green juice and then peruse the vegetables and fruits, stopping to chat with anyone and everyone. He engaged her once in a discussion about when the mango season started. He thought she might have been flirting with him, but realized she probably talked like that to all men.

He thought hard about his options and he did his research. The problem became more urgent with each week that went by. Vicki was on the verge of quitting the choir several times and he’d had to give her pep talks. Maybe this other choir member would get tired of it, he said. Or she’d move back North. Or the director would surely come to his senses.

The most promising opening in Clarice’s life, he thought, was actually on choir practice days. She drove by herself out to the run-down hotel where they had practice space. The road was steep, and twisty. Every week there was some kind of accident there. Clarice was a bad driver. He’d confirmed that during his research trips. It was honestly surprising he’d never seen her have an accident. Her SUV was kind of dinged up, little bumps and scrapes. But it seemed awfully risky to try to encourage an accident. An innocent pedestrian or a family in a car could be harmed.

He watched Clarice drive out of the gates of Vista Del Norte to go to choir practice and knew he’d have several hours. He drove into the frac, waving at the guard and saying he was going to house 24. Clarice lived in house 31. He parked near the pool and club-house and walked to her home. He knew her type. They were afraid of everything in Mexico but they felt safe in their little gated communities. There’d be some window or door ajar. He found it — a sliding glass door that opened onto her secluded patio. He let himself in and listened to be sure he was alone. The house smelled of strong perfume. Ugh. He quickly headed for the kitchen. He opened the fridge and pulled out all the beverages — Gatorade, bottled water, a half-open bottle of Chardonnay, a carton of orange juice, milk. He added a squirt of his potion to each one. And a few squirts to the garafon of drinking water that was perched on a pretty Talavera stand.

He went into the bathroom as well and doctored up the mouthwash.

He let himself out the same door and walked back to his car, saying hello to a few dog-walkers and to a gardener. Soon, his problem would be solved. He looked at his phone for the time. Yep, still time to watch a movie and eat some potato chips before Vicki got home.