"I'll Never Tell"

So nothing new to report really. Made out with an asshole a few weeks ago...regret it now. But over and done with. I've made some new friends, even set up a couple of 'em and it's working out good for them so far. Now it's their turn to reciprocate. Until then, I'll leave my gentle (non)-readers with a little fiction piece I wrote for my class this week that's based on some of my very dear friends and a little running gag we have. Hope you (if "you" actually entails that anyone is reading this) enjoy! ***********************************************************************************

The Accidental Widow

JLF

Dedicated to my friend/faux husband Chuck…because he wanted a story about him. Be careful what you wish for.

That’s me down there…

All dead and corpsified.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Kinda cliché thing to say, I know, but my neck definitely wasn’t supposed to be at that angle. But really, I was supposed to have this very charmed, very easy, very picture-perfect life.

Then she came along.

Wait, sorry, that was way too noirish. But that is where everything went horribly wrong. With her. My lovely, loving, completely devoted wife.

“You bitch! You ruined my life!” Yeah, that’s basically the gist of our marriage…at least now that I can look back with some perspective. At the point in time before I ended up dead, I had no idea just how bad things were.

It was supposed to be one of those idyllically perfect marriages. She was sweet and cute, only a few years older than me (clue #1 that this was a bad deal: I used to joke, “You know, I don’t usually go for cougars, but for you, baby, I’ll make an exception.” And she never laughed. Shoulda paid more attention to that), oh and she was one hell of a cook. She wanted to take care of me, a welcome change from most of my previous significantly not-so-caring others. I guess I just didn’t realize how crazy she was about wanting to “take care of me,” you know, in the Godfather sense of the phrase.

So here I am lying in a pool of my own blood with my neck turned at a very Exorcist-esque angle and my limbs strewn in what would be an exceedingly awkward position if I was alive to have feeling in them at the bottom of the steep flight of stairs that lead to my mistress’s apartment. Ouch, right?

Okay, I know. A mistress, bad me, slap my hand, but don’t kill me, okay? But what was I supposed to do? My oh-so-misleadingly-loving wife said I could have one.

“Whatever makes you happy, baby. You know I’d do anything for you. Besides it’s kinda my fault we don’t…well, you know…all that much. Go out and enjoy yourself. Just…you know, be careful.” A sweet little kiss on my forehead, that lingering brush of her hand down my shoulder and forearm meant to steal my soul in more than just the pop culture sense that I used to love. Why shouldn’t I take her at her word? Our relationship was never one based on…well, “the squelchy part.”

Sounds weird, right? A marriage with middling-to-no sex? That’s insa—okay, it’s really not all that unusual for most couples, I guess. But seriously, we were never about the sex. We just got along really well, had a lot in common, and we both felt it was the smart thing to do (getting married, I mean, not the not having sex part). We wouldn’t be so lonely anymore, would have someone to come home to, someone there for us, plus the convenience of split rent and bills (because she was very adamant on that). She was a refreshing change from most of the girls I had dated: they all saw the huge house my parents own (i.e. my parents, not me) and thought, Hey, I should hook him; he’s got major moolah. But she saw the house, met my uncomfortably uptight and pretentious dad over an uncomfortably expensive and gloat-inducing dinner and didn’t immediately pounce on me for an engagement. She wasn’t even phased; said she was a small town girl who’d never really cared about money and big houses and all those frivolous things (I didn’t even have to tell her that my dad and I were on shaky terms at best, so I wasn’t likely to be coming into any of his money at any point in the near or far future…of course I did tell her later, just in case she was far more subtle than any of the other girls I’d dated. But she still didn’t care). In fact, after that dinner she begged me to take her to Wendys for some $.99 menu fun.

That was the night I asked her to marry me.

Of course, clue #2, she laughed at that instead of my cougar joke. But even I didn’t think I was serious about that proposal when I said it. I was just impressed by her sheer ballsyness at standing up to my dad and then asking for the two cheeseburgers, accompanying fries, nuggets, and a shake. But then I said it, and she laughed, and my first thought was, Damn! I was totally serious. Now how do I get her to say yes?

Now, of course, I see that for the colossally huge mistake it was. Well, technically I don’t see anything at the moment, but you get the picture.

And here come the paramedics, because someone finally found my stiff and slightly frozen corpse. I guess that’s what I get for coming over here at such an ungodly hour. The next part is where this all goes straight to hell.

***

When they take her in to identify my body, she looks appropriately stunned, turns all pale and sort of yellow/green for a second before averting her face. The handsomely strong young officer escorting her into the dank and appropriately light-flickering morgue (I wonder if that’s my fault, since I’m all floaty and ghosty? Hmm…) puts a comforting hand on her shoulder and she leans into him for a moment. Not as affected as I thought. “I know it’s pretty gruesome, ma’am, but we just need a quick identification and then you can get out of here.” “I’m—I’m all right. I can do this. Thank you,” looking up at him with those adoring eyes half-filled with tears and a secret promise which I never ever saw that sets my nonexistent teeth on edge. “Take your time, ma’am.” She walks up to that (I imagine) cold metal table and stares at my grotesque former form for a moment, her eyes wide in terror and horror. “Oh my God! Oh my God.” “Ma’am, we—“ “—That’s him. That’s my—my husband…Chuck. I just…oh my God. Baby…” “It’s all right. We can go now if—“ “—No! No, I’m…I just…I just need a minute. Can I…can I have a minute alone with…with him? Please?” The silent coroner and the condolent officer give her her minute, the latter turning back for a moment as she quietly starts to cry, her face in my general former direction but not really looking at my body. But then, he too exits, and she’s finally alone with just me and my body. “Oh, Chuck…oh, baby. I just can’t believe this. I just can’t believe…that it turned out this well. You absolute moron. You had to be feeling those chest pains when you went up the stairs and yet, you still went through with it and then tried to take two flights of stairs back down again. Well, at least it doesn’t tie all this back to me in any way. I was gone to my conference and you were just visiting our dear old friend—my dear old friend—Blair. You know, when I said you could have an affair I meant you could have one with someone I didn’t know and would never have to know. Someone inconsequential. Someone to take away that pesky little burden of having to have sex with you. Did you really think that I just didn’t really ever want to have sex? Because I didn’t…at least not with you. So sure, I gave you permission to have a mistress, someone to keep you busy and out of my hair…and certainly out of my pants. But not Blair. Not my best friend and closest thing to family I have left in this world. How could either of you have ever thought it would be even remotely okay for you to—“ She pauses for a second, seems to actually be on the verge of some kind of emotional display, something to finally break that statuesque façade, but then she catches it. Gives a little laugh and a smile, though I’m not sure if she’s laughing at my deadened state or her own almost blunder. “Oh well, now I don’t have to worry about some pesky, messy divorce where you might eventually figure out just how much money I had tucked away and try to take half of it. You never even suspected, did you? You thought I was just some sweet, quiet little country girl whose parents had died and left her all alone with no one in the world to help her. Some hardy girl who pulled herself up by her bootstraps in that time-honored American fashion. Silly, silly boy. Don’t you think I would’ve gotten some settlement after they were killed? And my quaint little writing hobby that you thought was so cute, so adorable, so absolutely unnecessarily because we made enough already to support us. You had no idea that I’ve already had three books published and one even made it on the bestseller’s list…somewhere near the bottom sure, but it was on there. Trust me, baby, I had more than enough to get by. But I couldn’t let you know that. Couldn’t let you take it. You were always so worried about money since you were accustomed to having so much of it. Even though you always seemed so keen on my thrifty economics, I just couldn’t risk my little nest egg in your greedy little hands. I needed that money for my own fun.” Here she laughs, almost giddy, but she stifles it so the waiting cop and coroner don’t come rushing in, thinking she’s crazy or possibly just hysteric. I’d bank on the first option, boys. But no need, she’s too in control. I used to love that about her: How in control she was, how sure of herself. But now, I can definitely see how that controlling-ness did not pay off for me. “And it was so simple, baby. Your lover even gave me the idea. ‘Potassium shot right to heart!’ Of course, I couldn’t be so dramatic. That would be too easy to trace. But a few crushed potassium vitamins in your food now and then, over an extended period, and you die of a very convenient and tragically normal heart attack. And now, with your extra accident on top of all that, I’m even more in the clear. Even if they do find some extra potassium in your system, well, you did like your bananas. So thanks, baby, you made things so easy on me.” She stands up and turns, ready to leave, but then turns back and seems to look right at me, right at the real me floating somewhere above the old me. “If you would’ve really known me, the real me, you would’ve known that I would never call someone I actually loved ‘baby.’ See ya, Chuck.” And then she’s gone. That bitch.