Mixed Marriage

Miranda’s penetrating whine carried from the kitchen through the entire house. Jerry, who was in the living room stretching out on  the La-Z-Boy to catch the ballgame, thought about ignoring her this time. He looked at the gold band on his finger. It still felt funny. He twisted it a bit to make it more comfortable, then shuffled toward the siren call.



The late afternoon sunshine reflected off Miranda’s black hair like fluorescent light off a polished bowling ball, Jerry thought, and the sight caused him to suck in his breath and smile. He remained lost in her beauty until she snapped her fingers directly in front of his nose.



"It's the disposal," she said. She flipped the switch and it made a gurgle. "See? You need to do something about this."



Jerry's mother had warned him not to marry Miranda. "She's a witch," his mother had said. That was technically true. Miranda came from a long line of witches dating back before Salem.



"And your life is your own," his mother said. That was technically not true because, as a zombie, your life is never really your own, now is it?



During the toast at Jerry’s bachelor party, his brother pointed out that Miranda was grasping, petulant and needy. “She is the triple crown of marital discord,” Roger concluded before his upper lip fell into his beer. “Good luck, bro.” Roger sat down and used his index finger to fish his lip out of the mug.



But Miranda was stunning and occasionally doting and Jerry, no prize in the looks or the brains department (the zombie thing again), had been bewitched.



He stuck his hand in the disposal and felt around. There was a hand in there, in addition to his.



"Miranda, you can't put body parts in the disposal," he warned her for the third time that week.



Miranda flicked the switch and the disposal whirred and now Jerry felt two loose hands in there

.

He took his good hand and turned the disposal off, then pulled both the mangled ones out of the sink.

"I think I need replacement parts," he said.



Miranda looked her husband over and thought that he needed more than parts, but it was an excuse to go shopping and get out of this dead suburban neighborhood for a while, so she didn’t say anything to spoil the mood.



A salesman in a red-and-white seersucker suit spotted Miranda and Jerry as they came through the door of the hard-were store.



"Good afternoon folks," he said as he loped up next to them.



The salesman licked his paw and used it smooth back his hair. Miranda made a face. Jerry went to shake hands but realized he was holding his mangled right hand in his left.



The salesman cocked his head. "Zombie parts are in the back corner, by the coffee maker. Help yourself to a muffin if you'd like."



Jerry made his way through the aisles and was surprised when he looked back and Miranda had not followed. He shrugged and kept walking.



Miranda and the salesman were making smalltalk.



"We don't get many witches in here," he said. "Did you want to give your husband a hand?"

The werewolf chuckled and Miranda made a face that suggested she had a hairball and she wished to give it to him.



"Actually, I'm looking for more parts than that," Miranda said.



The salesman raised his bushy eyebrows.



"Don't get any ideas, Fang," she snapped. "I'm looking for something I can keep in the closet and bring out on special occasions. And I don't like fur."



Prejudice was nothing new to the salesman, and while he would have liked nothing better than to hike his leg and wet on her shoes, well, a sale's a sale.



He took her past the goblins (too small and oddly colored), the Frankenstein collection (obviously substandard stitching) and  the warlocks (too Liberace). Miranda’s running critique made the salesman’s tail droop.



Finally he said, "We have a shipment in the back. They're used but you might find something that suits you."



The loading dock was dusty and Miranda moved each piece of plastic using only the tips of her long fingernails.



“Wretched,” she said.



“Unsuitable.”



“Just pathetic.”



Jerry pushed through the door and saw her standing next to a stack of coffins.



“Find anything you like?” he said cheerfully.



“There are no nice vampires,” she said coldly.