Dylan Downey’s Deadly Dinners
Sirens blared, lights flashed, a policeman pushed curious neighbors behind a perimeter line, and rushing toward the ambulance were EMS responders, carrying Dylan Downey, motionless, on a stretcher. The sun was shining on the cul-de-sac of postage-stamp two-story homes, all with immaculate lawns and manicured shrubbery, as if no tragedy could invade their picture-perfect community.
But Satashia Savorey-Downey watched from the doorstep, her gaze blank.
“She musta done ‘im in,” whispered an elderly neighbor, shaking her head. Folds of flesh gathered around the old woman’s mouth in a wicked scowl. But Satashia overheard, and Satashia saw.
“Hell, no—it was his job. Overworked ‘im. That’s what those big companies do, yunow—work ‘ya ta death! Ev’rybody knows it,” the neighbor’s spouse argued, blades of wrath flickering in his eyes.
Satashia rolled hers. Dylan hadn’t worked for a big company.
An overweight, fifty-something man approached the crowd, flabby jowls vibrating with disdain. With an oversized doughnut in his right hand and a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie in his left, he wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his wrist so he could deliver his verdict.
“I heard they had a big fight last night. Shoutin’ like crazy! Wonder we didn’t hear a gun go off,” he shook his finger at the first couple, shirt tail escaping his generous elastic waist-band slacks.
His wife, rivaling his girth, snuck up behind him, leaned over, and took a large bite out of his doughnut.
“That’s mine, you oversized gorilla!” she swatted his burgeoning behind.
“Who’re you callin’ oversized, woman?” he fumed, stuffing the rest of the doughnut in his mouth. “Just helpin’ you outwit your enemy!” Then, his enraged expression softened, and his eyes bulged with confusion and incomprehension. “But come ta think of it, I never heard no fightin’.”
“That’s cuz you can’t never hear nothin’ lest it’s gossip!” his wife retorted, wagging her head and driving her angry, now unoccupied fists deep into her hefty hips.
“Who’s doin’ the fightin’ now?” a man in early thirties smirked, thoroughly enjoying the ruckus. The blond stubble-bearded father spun around and bounced his fidgeting two-year-old to keep her from screaming.
“I did hear a gunshot, and a whole lotta hollerin,” the next door widow butted into the lively conversation, pointing her crooked finger accusingly toward the window facing her house. “Saw their shadows through the screen. Right there at the dinner table. Lor’, I’ve tasted her cookin’. Recipes ‘riginatin’ from hell itself. A man can only take so much, ya know. The argument musta started from there ’n escalated. They wuz awavin’ their arms, abuzzin’ with anger like riled-up hornets. She musta got t’the gun first.”
“It started at the dinner table?” a twenty-something mother stared in disbelief, her jaw sagging, as was her food-stained apron.
“He was always tellin’ everybody else whatta do,” a young schoolboy scowled at his friends, each watching the spectacle from the judgment seat of a bicycle saddle. The others nodded with conviction.
“He was scaaaary,” his friend shook her freckled face and curly red hair.
“Maybe the neighborhood will finally have some peace!” chimed in a third child as he ripped across Dylan’s yard, his back tires digging into the Downeys’ lush green lawn.
“Naw, she’s the scary one now. Armed with a gun!” a dark-eyed, mean-looking man glared at the children, pointing at Satashia. “That weapon now makes two reasons to never eat at her table.” The terrorized youngsters scattered.
Ignoring the black-cloaked stranger, other neighbors offered their scathing opinions, all audible to Satashia, piercing her heart with spikes of scorn.
After providing those kids with bicycles…after helping that couple with their marriage troubles…after inviting that elderly pair over to meal after meal, repeating everything two or three times so he wouldn’t miss anything being said…after comforting that widow when grieving over her loss…after helping that young man get his first job…after…after…. Alas, deep in her heart, she understood her neighbors all too well—their comments only confirmed the truth.
Satashia strode down the sidewalk under the scolding glares of neighbors, not casting a single glance at the children cycling in the street, hurrying toward the ambulance. Reaching Dylan’s stretcher, she grabbed his hand, and to everyone’s utter shock, he sat up. Dylan Downey tossed aside the covering blanket. From his arms, he ripped the tubes attached—not by needles, but by tape. With his arm around Satashia, he stood facing the crowd.
The grave expressions of the EMS responders, Dylan’s co-workers, dropped the stretcher in pretended shock. Silence swept through the swelling swarm as mouths slacked open.
Dylan Downey cleared his throat.
Satashia Savorey-Downey straightened herself. Neighbors held their breaths.
“Your uncensored insights into ‘the family next door’ have been most helpful,” Dylan announced. “We have bought a new home across town. Thank you for making our departure that much easier.”
But Satashia Savorey-Downey watched from the doorstep, her gaze blank.
“She musta done ‘im in,” whispered an elderly neighbor, shaking her head. Folds of flesh gathered around the old woman’s mouth in a wicked scowl. But Satashia overheard, and Satashia saw.
“Hell, no—it was his job. Overworked ‘im. That’s what those big companies do, yunow—work ‘ya ta death! Ev’rybody knows it,” the neighbor’s spouse argued, blades of wrath flickering in his eyes.
Satashia rolled hers. Dylan hadn’t worked for a big company.
An overweight, fifty-something man approached the crowd, flabby jowls vibrating with disdain. With an oversized doughnut in his right hand and a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie in his left, he wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his wrist so he could deliver his verdict.
“I heard they had a big fight last night. Shoutin’ like crazy! Wonder we didn’t hear a gun go off,” he shook his finger at the first couple, shirt tail escaping his generous elastic waist-band slacks.
His wife, rivaling his girth, snuck up behind him, leaned over, and took a large bite out of his doughnut.
“That’s mine, you oversized gorilla!” she swatted his burgeoning behind.
“Who’re you callin’ oversized, woman?” he fumed, stuffing the rest of the doughnut in his mouth. “Just helpin’ you outwit your enemy!” Then, his enraged expression softened, and his eyes bulged with confusion and incomprehension. “But come ta think of it, I never heard no fightin’.”
“That’s cuz you can’t never hear nothin’ lest it’s gossip!” his wife retorted, wagging her head and driving her angry, now unoccupied fists deep into her hefty hips.
“Who’s doin’ the fightin’ now?” a man in early thirties smirked, thoroughly enjoying the ruckus. The blond stubble-bearded father spun around and bounced his fidgeting two-year-old to keep her from screaming.
“I did hear a gunshot, and a whole lotta hollerin,” the next door widow butted into the lively conversation, pointing her crooked finger accusingly toward the window facing her house. “Saw their shadows through the screen. Right there at the dinner table. Lor’, I’ve tasted her cookin’. Recipes ‘riginatin’ from hell itself. A man can only take so much, ya know. The argument musta started from there ’n escalated. They wuz awavin’ their arms, abuzzin’ with anger like riled-up hornets. She musta got t’the gun first.”
“It started at the dinner table?” a twenty-something mother stared in disbelief, her jaw sagging, as was her food-stained apron.
“He was always tellin’ everybody else whatta do,” a young schoolboy scowled at his friends, each watching the spectacle from the judgment seat of a bicycle saddle. The others nodded with conviction.
“He was scaaaary,” his friend shook her freckled face and curly red hair.
“Maybe the neighborhood will finally have some peace!” chimed in a third child as he ripped across Dylan’s yard, his back tires digging into the Downeys’ lush green lawn.
“Naw, she’s the scary one now. Armed with a gun!” a dark-eyed, mean-looking man glared at the children, pointing at Satashia. “That weapon now makes two reasons to never eat at her table.” The terrorized youngsters scattered.
Ignoring the black-cloaked stranger, other neighbors offered their scathing opinions, all audible to Satashia, piercing her heart with spikes of scorn.
After providing those kids with bicycles…after helping that couple with their marriage troubles…after inviting that elderly pair over to meal after meal, repeating everything two or three times so he wouldn’t miss anything being said…after comforting that widow when grieving over her loss…after helping that young man get his first job…after…after…. Alas, deep in her heart, she understood her neighbors all too well—their comments only confirmed the truth.
Satashia strode down the sidewalk under the scolding glares of neighbors, not casting a single glance at the children cycling in the street, hurrying toward the ambulance. Reaching Dylan’s stretcher, she grabbed his hand, and to everyone’s utter shock, he sat up. Dylan Downey tossed aside the covering blanket. From his arms, he ripped the tubes attached—not by needles, but by tape. With his arm around Satashia, he stood facing the crowd.
The grave expressions of the EMS responders, Dylan’s co-workers, dropped the stretcher in pretended shock. Silence swept through the swelling swarm as mouths slacked open.
Dylan Downey cleared his throat.
Satashia Savorey-Downey straightened herself. Neighbors held their breaths.
“Your uncensored insights into ‘the family next door’ have been most helpful,” Dylan announced. “We have bought a new home across town. Thank you for making our departure that much easier.”
