Happy Wife, Happy Life 

         “Why is it so hot in this house? Huh? Can you answer me that, Bill?” Francine stood in the kitchen looking at her husband on the couch. A vile sneer stuck to her sweaty face as a hand clamped to her hip.

         “I don’t know what the problem is, Francine. I’ll have to get somebody in here to fix it,” replied Bill, as he stared at the box television with indifference. Though his thoughts said otherwise: Why don’t you call someone? You sit at home all day doin’ nothin’.

         “Some handyman you are, Bill. Can’t even fix the air conditioning in your own home. I’ve been up all night for the past week, sweatin’ up a storm, and all you do is drink and watch TV.” Francine’s scorching stare burned holes in the side of Bill’s head.

         “I fix stuff all day, Francine. I don’t want to come home and fix things after a hot day. I want to relax,” Bill said. You wouldn’t know anything about a hot day of labor because you never leave the house.

         “Bill, I’m not asking that much of you. Please just do something about it.”

Francine wiped her brow, her eyes trained on her husband as his were on the television.

         I’m going to do something about it, all right. You won’t have to worry about complaining about the temperature when your cold body is on a cold steel slab. “Fine! I’ll get Harry to come and look at it. He ain’t doing anything tomorrow anyway.”

         “You can’t fix it?” Francine asked, frustrated.

         “Well, no, I can’t fix it. That’s Harry’s job,” Bill said, never moving his eyes from the TV.

         Francine’s hands landed on her hips, “And what’s your job, Bill, standing around watching everyone else work?”

         “Watch your tone in there. I’ve had too hard a day to listen to you bicker.” I know you just sat around and watched smut soaps all day while I busted it at work. I’m the one that started the company; I have the right to stand around now and then.

         A scoff of hot air sizzled through Francine’s lips. Bill ignored her.

         There won’t be any of that when there’s no air in your body.

         Francine went back to cooking dinner as the sheen of sweat on her forehead turned to beads that dripped down. South Texas had been greeted with a particularly potent heat wave that sent the temperature soaring above ninety degrees in their house as the limping A/C struggled to keep up. It was even hotter in the kitchen as Francine stood over the stove. She reached overhead and pulled the cabinet door open. A grating squeal met her ears.

         “Bill! I told you to oil this cupboard! Is it that hard? Or are you just that lazy?”

         “I said I’d get to it,” Bill said. His level tone remained as his mind raged on: I wish I could just do it now; get out the old blade and just finish her off, he blinked slowly and took a swig of beer. Patience, Bill.

         “I’m sick of it hollerin’ at me like a dyin’ rabbit every time I try to get a knife and a cutting board,” she said.

         I can’t wait to hear a dyin’ holler out of you. Swig of beer. Ah, the bliss of a silent home. Then another. But first, patience.

         The burning eyes stared into the side of Bill’s head again as he emptied the sweating beer bottle. It was hot in the house. Bill could not deny that as the beads dripped down the back of his neck.

         Francine shook with rage as she ripped a sack of potatoes out of the pantry and began peeling them. The knife struggled to get through the wrinkled peel. Francine slammed the knife on the counter and went to the cupboard to select another. The cabinet door came open with a furious groan that made even Bill jump. She selected another knife and tried it on the potato. It dragged through the peel as her hands shook with strain. The knife slipped with the force and sliced her thumb.

         “Damn, Bill, I told you to sharpen these knives. I went and cut myself.”

         “You should try to be more careful,” replied Bill, sipping his beer and staring at the people on the TV. If you think that cut was bad, wait ‘til I’m done with you.

         Francine threw the knife in the sink and wrapped her apron around her thumb to stop the bleeding. She turned the dial on the stove to 350° and stomped past Bill. “I guess it’s frozen dinners since you can’t be bothered to help around here!”

         Bill nodded as Francine stormed to the deep freeze in the garage. Better than anything you were gonna cook anyway.

         Francine went through the door into the humid garage and took a deep breath as the sweltering air dragged the sweat from her pores. She moved over to the chest freezer and stepped in a puddle of water.

         “Dammit, Bill!” She opened the lid. Condensation congregated on the thawing food as it did on her forehead. She grabbed two frozen meals—Salisbury steak—and went back inside, struggling with the door as her thumb throbbed in the apron.

         “Bill!” she yelled when she came through the door. “I told you to look at that freezer a week ago.”

         “Yeah, so what?”

         “So what?! So now everything’s thawing.”

         Bill moved his eyes from the TV to Francine. That’s a problem. “That’s a problem,” he said. Where am I gonna put your body after I chop you up?

         “Ya think so?” Francine mocked.

         Bill stood up. “I’ll get on it, Francine.”

         “Oh.” Francine paused, taken aback. “Thank you.”

         She watched him curiously as he walked past her into the garage.

         Bill looked at the pool of water on the floor. Not good at all, he thought. He unplugged the unit and the struggling condenser died. He pulled it away from the wall and, kneeling down, could see the source of the problem. A thick layer of dust had built up on the coil. “That’ll do it.” He grabbed a coarse brush off the workbench and removed the blanket of dust. Shoving the freezer back in place, Bill plugged it in and opened it. He could see his nagging wife’s contorted body lying in there, frozen, next to all the TV dinners. The condenser hummed smoothly—problem solved. As a handyman by trade, Bill knew that dirt, dust, and grime were usually the culprits in faulty equipment.

         He closed the lid and stood in the melting heat of the garage, thinking. And what about the dull knives? It would be difficult to carve her up with those. And she said she hasn’t been sleeping at night with the A/C not up to snuff. And what about the squeaky door to the knife cupboard? That sound could wake a dead man. Bill rubbed his chin below his thoughtful eyes. He had a lot of work to do.

         Grabbing the oil spout from the dusty shelf overhead, Bill went inside.

         Francine was putting the aluminum trays into the oven when Bill walked in and opened the knife cupboard. The screaming hinges made his teeth grind together.

         “See what I mean about that door,” Francine said, her voice calmer, more reasonable.

         Bill ignored her. He squirted a few drops of oil on each hinge and moved the door back and forth until the sound faded away. Bill checked the other cabinets and returned to the garage.

         Francine’s bewildered eyes followed him, paused on the door until he returned. Bill walked to the phone on the wall and spun the rotary dial. He paused for an answer on the other end.

         “Harry, this is Bill… Yeah, I’m all right. Could you stop by my house first thing in the morning and check out my A/C? It’s struggling to keep up and Francine is having a hard time sleeping.” Bill paused, laughed, and said, “Just trying to keep her comfy. All right, see you in the morning.” Bill hung up the phone and went back to his warm beer and television.

         “Thanks, Bill,” Francine said, demurely hiding the shock of what she just witnessed.

         Bill sat silently and sucked the rest of his beer back. Now she starts thanking me. Go figure.

         “Dinner’ll be ready shortly,” Francine said.

         Bill nodded, “I’ll get those knives sharpened tonight as well.”

         “Oh no, honey, you don’t have to worry about that tonight. It’s not urgent.” The saccharine tone dripped from her lips as she looked apologetically at her bandaged finger. Bill didn’t notice.

         “No, you’re right, they need to be done,” Bill said. You need to be done.

         Francine examined him. “Can I get you another beer?”

         Bill looked at the brown bottle in his hand. “Sure, why not.” Look at her gettin’ sweet all the sudden. No matter, time’s up for her.

         Francine removed her apron and brought him a cold beer. She sat next to him and watched television, occasionally looking at her husband from the corner of her eye. Bill held an unblinking stare at the TV as he sipped his suds.

         Francine looked at the clock and got up to remove the dinners from the oven. She scraped the mush in each tray to a plate of its own and served it at the table.

         “Dinner’s ready,” she announced.

         Bill continued to stare, almost as if looking at nothing, Francine thought.

         “Bill? Do you want your dinner?”

         Slowly, surely, he said: “I’ll be there in a minute.” I don’t want to sit across from you and stare at that homely face, he thought.

         “I’ll just eat without you.” Francine sat and waited for a response. All she got was the tipping back of the beer as Bill stared into space.

Francine watched him as she ate: stare and drink, stare and drink. It was the only movement he knew until his beer was empty and she brought him another one.

         The clock continued to turn as Francine watched from the dining table, getting up intermittently to get Bill another beer. Stare and drink, stare and drink.

         “I’m going to go to bed, Bill. Do you want me to leave your dinner out or toss it?”

         “Leave it,” replied Bill. “I’ll be up a while longer.”

         “Don’t stay up too late,” Francine said. Bill nodded. She watched him a minute longer—stare and drink, stare and drink—until she went to bed.

         Bill waited until the door clicked shut before he finished his beer and stood to sharpen the knives. He threw his dinner in the garbage and put the plate in the sink. He opened the knife cupboard—smooth—and took the knife block to the garage. Putting the knives next to the grinder, Bill checked the freezer—cold and humming once again.

         Taking the blades out one-by-one, he checked their edges with a scrape of his finger. They were dull, too dull to get the job done. Against the edge of the grinding wheel, Bill whet each blade with careful detail, staring with the same blank eyes that watched the TV. He tested each blade on his arm, shaving a little hair off each time. He reloaded the block and took it back inside, inspecting each step and door hinge for any unnecessary sounds. The house was hot, but after Harry fixed the A/C in the morning, the stage would be set.

         Bill drank the last two beers in the fridge and fell asleep on the couch.

#

         The next day, Bill brooded in his office as he stared at the spinning fan overhead. Harry had taken care of the air conditioner—he had been right prompt on fixing that for the boss—and tonight Bill would take care of Francine. That morning over breakfast she had asked Bill if he was all right. I will be soon enough, Francine, just gotta be patient… soon enough.

         The thought of silence in his home, the A/C cooling everything down, him drinking beer and watching TV, his wife cut up and in the freezer, brought him a comforting happiness.

         He decided he would keep the body in the freezer awhile, so he could see her frozen face staring up at him with that dumb look of horror he had dreamed about.

         The clock turned slowly, as the fan overhead turned slowly, but the hands approached five. Bill had savored this long enough, now it was time to collect on his patience. Saying a quick goodbye to the receptionist, Bill stepped into the heat and got in his truck to grab a celebratory six-pack before he went home. The sweat trickled down his back as he cruised down the scorched blacktop, but a smile remained on his face.

         He pulled into the driveway and sat for a moment before getting out. A smile curled the corners of his mouth, thinking about what was ahead. Bill walked toward the door, his blank stare extending from his eyes. He looked down at the welcome mat: “Home Sweet Home,” he read aloud. Soon enough.

         Bill opened the door and was greeted with a refreshing rush of cool air. Atta boy, Harry. Bill felt happy, almost giddy.

         He closed the door and turned to see the cause of all his problems standing in front of a set dining table wearing a dark blue dress, makeup, and a pleasant smile stretched from apple red lips. Her hair hung by her cheeks in a flipped bob, the same way she had worn it on their first date.

         “Hi, honey,” she said, nervously biting her candy lips. She glanced at the beer in his hand. “Oh, I got you a six-pack already, but that don’t matter. The more the merrier.” She giggled. Bill stared at her. He hadn’t seen her so done up in more than five years. Francine looked toward the carpet with a blush to match her lipstick. “Dinner’s ready when you’re ready for it. I made your favorite: fried chicken, mashed taters and gravy, green beans, and chocolate cake for dessert.”

         “Uh, okay,” Bill said. “Just lemme wash up first.”

         Francine came forward with an excited step and took the six-pack from his hands. Bill could smell her perfume. If it had been five years since she dressed up like that, it had been at least ten years since she last wore perfume.

         “Don’t want those to get warm,” she giggled again.

         Bill stared at her one last time before he went to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. Don’t let her trick you. Being grateful one single day doesn’t mean anything.

         Bill dried his hands, breathed deep, and went back to the dining room. Patience. Two plates, piled with food, sat across from each other as the chocolate cake glistened and the foam settled on a freshly poured beer. Francine still stood by the table with a meek smile on her face.

         Bill sat behind his plate. Francine joined him. He picked up his fork and Francine’s hand touched his. Bill looked across at her.

         “I want to say thank you, Bill, for all the wonderful things you’ve done around the house the past few days. I know you work hard and I appreciate that very much, though I don’t always say it.” An honest smile fixed on her face as she spoke. “My momma always said the best way to thank a man is by getting all dressed up and pretty and cooking a fine meal for him. And I believe she was right.” Francine laughed as Bill stared back with a blank face. “Anyway, this is me thanking you. Now dig in.” Francine let go of his hand and picked up her own fork.

         Bill scooped a heap of mashed potatoes as a sardonic smile stretched across his face. “Well, you know what they say: ‘happy wife, happy life.’”

THE END