Casserole

Bridget had decided. There were now only two options for Hans Landa: death or captivity. If she allowed him to return to Nantucket upon his promise that he send her his pension checks, he could always re-enter her life at her child's due date and steal the child away, making short work of her in the process. The option for him to leave intact was no longer valid. If she killed him, he would no longer be a threat in her life, and yet disposing of his body would be quite the task. If she allowed him to live but restrained his movements, she would have the money and the upper hand at all times. And yet, she was not ready to hold a man captive in her house. She needed ample preparation. Walking to her closet, she pulled out a baby pink dress, the most feminine article of clothing she owned.

After dressing and applying ample makeup, Bridget stood in her living room, staring at the door across the way, the door that had a chair propped under the knob. Would he stay put? Or would she arrive back at home to an ambush? She walked over to her kitchen and found a little sugar spoon. She placed it on the angled chair, along with a measuring spoon at a particular angle. If Landa were to get through this door, the spoons would clatter to the ground and he'd have no way of knowing their original orientation, even if he tried to recreate the scene. She also ensured that the curtains were drawn back so that she could peer into the house to check the spoons before her arrival.

This was no way to live, worried about her captive ambushing him. She had to put him in his place as soon as was possible.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when Bridget returned from a truly bizarre shopping spree. She smiled as she peered in the window at the guest bedroom door, the chair still propped up against it as it had been from the night before, the spoons still crisscrossed exactly how she had left them. So Landa had apparently not escaped. The question was, had he tried to do so?

She placed the shopping bags on her small square kitchen table and began looking through her unusual purchases—she'd caused the clerk at the pet store to raise his eyebrow more than once at her choice of chains, muzzles, insect repellant, rat poison, various restraints…. These would have to work for now until she could acquire a pair of real handcuffs. A couple more trips to the car and she was hefting several more bags from the pharmacy, grocery store, and the hardware store, in addition to a series of locked safes back to the house, safes that would be used to store her most valuable possessions as well as weapons and items to use against her unwelcome houseguest. She'd also purchased a deadbolt, but wasn't exactly certain how to go about installing it in his door. It was possible she could will Landa to do so himself.

By the time Bridget considered checking on her prisoner, she had securely fastened her series of safes to her bedroom floor and had placed all the items of interest in the safes, locking them with keys she then hid in a carefully hidden slice she'd made in her mattress.

Now came the difficult part: ensuring that Hans Landa was kept calm yet contained.

She hadn't expected him to be waiting on the other side of the door when she finally opened it, but she also hadn't expected to have to wait a full five minutes before Hans Landa finally emerged from his makeshift prison.

Landa's hair was all askew as he finally made his way to the doorway, wearing the clothes he'd had on yesterday when he'd left the hospital. He looked very uncomfortable in his wrinkled outfit, wincing at the crutch under his armpit, leagues away from the confident man bedecked in his Nazi uniform. Bridget was in the kitchen, busily planning dinner.

"Guten Tag," he grumbled. She looked up from her recipe book—cheese casserole. It had to be good, rich food. She did not reply to his greeting, instead giving him a half-hearted smile.

"I had to make use of that garbage can," Landa muttered, making a face of distaste as he pointed back at the trash can next to his bed. He reached up, arranging strands of hair over his ugly swastika scar. "I don't envy you, having to deal with my hours-old piss—"

Bridget crossed her arms adamantly, taking a step back from the counter to face him.

"Your toilet is your responsibility," she snapped back. "You clean it."

He looked affronted, twisting his face into a scowl.

"And what if I don't?"

"Then you get to smell your hours-old piss turn to day-old then week-old piss. Your choice."

"You have indoor plumbing; why must I be barricaded in that damn r—"

"For my safety."

He smiled a wry smile.

"I am flattered that you still believe me to be so dangerous that you have to protect yourself while you sleep."

"I see what you are trying to do there; I am not changing my mind. That garbage can is your night toilet. Learn to hold it in like a man and you should have no issues."

"Yes, well, you neglected to let me out of my room this morning when you took off to wherever it is you went. What, do you expect me to hold it forever?"

"I expect you to control your urges, whatever they may be," she replied, turning away from him abruptly. "I am busy planning dinner."

He took a halting step forward, leading with his crutch.

"Oooh, what are we having?" he asked, feeling his stomach already grumbling. It had been many hours since he'd last eaten, and that had been a mere glop or two of hospital food.

"Cheese casserole."

He gave her a nod of approval, his winningest smile.

"I look forward to it."

"I need to concentrate right now. Go clean out your toilet."

Landa's smile faded, his shoulders noticeably falling. This was an argument he would not win.

"Mmm, this is quite good," Landa mumbled, his mouth full of casserole. It was unexpected that the German starlet Bridget Von Hammersmark was a decent cook. Perhaps living with a woman would not be such a bad thing—it was almost like a marriage, in a way—he'd have someone who would cook and clean and do his laundry, and he could bide his time thinking of other things—his impending fatherhood, for one. If he could somehow gain her trust enough to be freed of his bedroom prison, the situation would be ideal. At the very least, it would mean he could use an actual toilet again.

"Would you like another helping?" Bridget asked, standing up from across the small kitchen table, the serving spoon in hand. She had removed her heels but kept on her apron, which billowed over the bulge of her pregnant belly, making her look downright… domestic.

"Of course, Fraulein," he said with a giggle. His giggle soon became a boyish smile, wide and appreciative.

"What?" Bridget asked, peering at him suspiciously.

"Just—this," he said, the toothy grin remaining on his face. "You and me, in a sort of arranged marriage, if you will. Probably more similar to conventional relationships than anyone would be comfortable admitting! I the breadwinner and you in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. Is that not the American vernacular?"

"I wouldn't go that far," she muttered, under her breath. For a moment, Landa's face went serious.

"Then what would you call this, hmm?"

"A hostage situation, I would say."

"Is that right?" he said, his smile returning. "And who would you say is the hostage? I would argue after my nearly fourteen-hour confinement last night, that the hostage is in fact—"

"You could have left the hospital and returned to Nantucket but you decided to come back here, to force your way back into my life."

"You mean, drive my missing automobile back across the country with one leg? I fail to see how that would be possible."

"There are taxis, trains, planes—"

"Oh, don't spoil this, Bridget," he said, interrupting her with a dismissive gesture. "It's just such a nice meal you made here." He grinned up at her, lifting his spoon triumphantly and taking a big bite of the casserole. "My compliments to the chef."

A half an hour later, and Landa had fallen asleep at the table. Drool ran out of the corner of his mouth, his head nestled in the crook of his elbow. She poked him several times but he remained asleep. It had worked.

She'd added a metal divider to the casserole before baking it, lacing the cheese on Landa's side of the casserole with a smattering of crushed pills she'd been prescribed for her insomnia upon arriving in California. It had certainly worked its charms, knocking him out completely, as evidenced by his loud snoring. There he was now, utterly helpless. She could do anything to him and he'd be unable to respond in any meaningful way.

It would be easy to kill him, so very easy. She could picture it now: she'd drag his snoring body into her bathroom and deposit him inside her shower stall like a limp fish. Once he was entirely inside the shower enclosure, his head lolling back, she'd slice open his neck, and let the blood stream down the drain, turning on the shower for good measure. It was the perfect location to cut him into smaller pieces without making a mess of the floor. She'd bought the knives for it during her shopping spree today, the bags and the cleaning agents, the lye. The main issue was with removing what remained of those pieces and putting them somewhere they wouldn't be discovered and traced back to their fateful dual hospital visit, his shiny new vehicle outside. Was she up for that right now, the smell of the lye burning through his flesh, the blood and guts, the feeling of saw on bone? Moreover, how would she wash off after the butchering session? She only had the one shower. Ugh. I hadn't considered all that.

Though she had worked out the details of Landa's murder, Bridget hesitated to commence his final journey to the bathroom. She had not yet gleaned one benefit from Landa's arriving here, aside from that hospital stay that had cost her nearly the entirety of the money she'd made for her short speaking role. She reminded herself that she had purchased other items as well today, items to keep him restrained and helpless. Perhaps he would beg for death soon enough. Perhaps.