Beloved Wife & Mother

Beloved Wife & Mother
By Faye F.

I

Meals eaten in solitude are consumed at an astonishing and unfortunate speed. Mena Barrows knew this well enough, but still – even as she sat at her dining table made of polished oak, large enough for four – she tried not to finish her dinner in less than five minutes.

It scared her to be done so quickly. To be done in five minutes would mean three hours and fifty five minutes of emptiness before sleep could become a reasonable distraction.

The inevitable came to pass; Mena wiped her mouth with finality on the linen napkin she’d ironed that morning. Mr. Barrows would be back in an hour, but that didn’t mean much to her. He’d toss his coat over the couch, and watch television until he, too, could go to bed.

Mena washed the dishes that had been stacked messily in the sink by childish hands.

The Barrows had two children Brendan and Mimosa. Although Mena suspected that Mr. Barrows would have dearly loved to work on a third, fourth, or barbaric fifth, she couldn’t be persuaded to participate in the reproductive process again. Mena Barrows recalled the awkward loss of her virginity with loathsome clarity.

She supposed that perhaps, some women enjoyed sex, but that the delight faded with age and marriage; or that in the first place, they only pretended to like it as much as their husbands. Mena took no pleasure in it at all – she was a little disgusted at the thought of her husband breathing on top of her, and a little guilty that her ardor didn’t match his.

When Mena finished drying the plates and utensils with a little white cloth (as all good wives and mothers do) she stacked them in the neatest of rows on the drying rack, with the precision of one who has become accustomed, but not yet embittered, by the tedium of the act.

II

Tuesday was window cleaning day – Mena’s favorite, because she could find reasons to put down the work, and go outside if the weather was in her favor. After cleaning the attic windows, she had forgotten to bring the pink bucket she used to hold rinsing water downstairs as well. She happened to retrieve it at the exact moment the new neighbors arrived to at the house next door.

Crouched in the musty attic, her hair in a dowdy ponytail, she played the voyeur very well. And Mena’s perfect vision served her well in this instance. A man and his two dark-haired children trailed behind a mini-skirted individual who was obviously the Lady of the House. She stood out like a vein of quicksilver born inside the earth; liquid diamond in a common mold; the blinding lightning wrapped up in the storm.

The woman whose name was still an enigma walked into her new house with a swagger and a smirk, as if to affirm her ownership of it and all persons residing within. An artificial platinum blonde, seething crimson lips, and skin too pale to be considered elegant – all packaged into a five foot four frame in a lascivious red mini-dress.

Mena came to only one definite conclusion. The Barrows would throw a party that evening, to welcome the new neighbors to Kennebec County.

She poured the dirty soap water from the bucket into the sink with a smile on her face that could only be understood out of context.

III

“Hi, I’m Mena Barrows and this is my husband James,” she addressed the neighbors that evening.

“Hello, I’m Lillian and this is my ball-and-chain Mikhael.” She spoke with a polite European accent of ambiguous origin. (Poland? Russia? The unworldly Mena wasn’t certain.)

“I am just so glad you guys could make it,” said Mena, “James and I really need to make some new friends with other couples…”

“Yeah, we’re glad to have a guide – we’re new to this state.”

“Well,” James said, laughing, “Maine’s a great place to get away.”

Supper had gone very well. Mena called her Uncle Drew to take the children off her hands for the night, and for once, she was singing (singing!) as she made dinner.

Mikhael fingered the fishing rods that hung over the fireplace. “These…” he pointed to the thin steel shafts, “Are yours?”

“Oh, yeah, hey –” James was enthused. “I’m a big fishing man; do you fish? Because we could get together one of these days after work…”

The sounds of gentlemanly conversation faded as the two men, one slightly bewildered by the other’s enthusiasm for fish, glided to the living room where there were even more implements for the attainment of Pisces species.

“So…” Lillian smiled.
“Yes, um…what do you and your husband do?” Mena played with the teacup and saucer in her lap.

“We moved here actually because the market for architects back home is a little…limited. Kennebec’s great because new stores and malls are springing up to cater to the expanding suburbs.” Lillian crossed her legs, and her skirt rode up a little. She wore threadbare black stockings that could have been a mark of financial troubles, but instead, they suited her. The white of her kneecaps could be seen through the translucence of the stockings.

Mena didn’t notice. Not at all.

“I’m a professional, too, I’m a professor of foreign languages at Colby. Gods, I’d kill myself if I had to be a housewife.”

Mena’s face began to burn a little.

Lillian, laughing, asked, “What do you do, Mena?”

Mena started to collect the dishes, and tied her apron strings with more force than necessary. The skin on the back of her neck was bright red.

“Oh…oh.” Lillian’s reached with her right hand, and stopped the other woman.

She raised her eyes to rest on Mena’s. “I’ll apologize for the telling of it, but I don’t apologize for the truth.”

“I understand,” Mena looked intently at the shorter woman. “I take pride in this hell of my own creation.”

A flash, like a movie clip in monochrome. Revelation flickered in the eyes of Lillian.

“Mena…”she whispered, “Do you like this home of yours?...Do you love your James?”

“I do.”

Lillian nodded. “But that doesn’t matter. You have everything you’ve ever aspired to have, but you don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“I woke up this morning with a question that I didn’t remember…I could feel it in the bloody marrow of my bones…” said Mena.

“I couldn’t breathe, there was a leaden weight on my chest that had always been there, but today I could feel it crushing me…” continued Lillian, dreamily.

“I looked around, and the tepid sunlight filtered through the window slats into shadows of prison bars on my body…”

“Oh, Mena…you’re just like me…you understand.”

A storm was brewing outside, and the rain lapped at the windows like obscene tongues.

“I won’t be starting work at Colby for another few days. Would you like to come over some time?”

Lillian thrilled her, for reasons she could not divine. She was tremulously fascinated, and repulsed by what the foreign woman could’ve implied…

“What for?” Mena frowned.

Suddenly, the sounds of the men’s laughter’s amplified.

“…So I told him, over my dead fish…” The dream that had overtaken Mena and Lillian dissipated.

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Barrows for the lovely evening.” A frantic Mikhael urged his wife, “Lillian? Shall we go? I fear that I’m somewhat exhausted.”

“Here, take your coat,” said Lillian. She seemed celestial and distant to him.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Mikhael mumbled as the pair hurried out.

Attic, Lillian seemed to mouth from behind her blonde hair.

“I think Mikhael and I are buddies already; we’re going fishing tomorrow. How are you girls coming along? Friends yet?” asked Mr. Barrows.

IV

The two houses were built during the fifties, side by side, like man and wife. They were twins— identical down to the white washed picket fences, the manicured lawns, and the pastel drywall. A contractor’s error built the two homes unnaturally close – it was incestuous, almost.

That night, Mena was dysphoric. She could not stop tossing and turning, and she sensed, through the compression of his shoulders and the tenseness in his jaw, that James wanted her to either lie still or get out.

She obliged him. Sweater in hand, she blindly felt her way to the kitchen where the clock ticked the rhythm of her heart. Mena was barefoot, and the vinyl floor was colder with every step. Neon lights illuminated her laminated kitchen; she popped a stale and powdery pill in her mouth, and swallowed a mouthful of water that tasted of guilty consciences.

She chastised herself for her thoughts.
And then she rationalized, I haven’t done anything
…yet.

The damn clock kept ticking the seconds of her life away. We all die, don’t we? She thought. So in the end, do we face punishment for our sins? Or are we simply animals left to decompose?

If Mrs. Mena Barrows had been a good Catholic woman (like all good wives and mothers), her God-fearing conscience might have kept her in the lower levels of her home that night.

Through the screen door of her kitchen Mena saw that in the neighbors’ house, a single lamp burned in the highest window.

Thank God I’m an atheist.

V

Lillian saw the figure peering through the window across from hers with desperation written into its movements. Mena stared back at the seductive creature (why the word seductive came to mind, she didn’t fully comprehend).

Suddenly, they were drawn to stand parallel in their windows – and they faced each other, like strange mirrors. Lillian pressed her hand upon the glass, as though reaching to touch her. And Mena, burning with want, pressed hers upon that freezing glass which divided them. A silky thigh in those same black stockings grazed the glass, and a kiss from the blonde’s lips followed. Oh, vixen! Mena could almost feel those lips as she embraced her window. Without warning, her hands began traveling to unspeakable places. Lillian was entranced by the sight of Mena— lonely, tame, Mena – rolling her head of wiry curls in heathenish pleasure.

Lillian couldn’t take it any longer – she cautiously unlatched her window. Mena opened hers.

Bracing was the night air, and the stars burned bright in the coal black sky.

Mena was afraid to jump, and she shivered from fear, not cold.

“Jump,” Lillian commanded in a whisper.

Mena leapt, buoyed by passion and trust. Lillian caught her, and they tumbled onto the hard floor of the attic, bruising themselves all over, but neither cared.

Lillian lifted Mena’s chin upwards.

“Is this your first kiss?”

Mena acknowledged the unspoken half of the question.

“Yes.”

She kissed her, and Mena heard her pulse thrumming in her heart – such rapture.

Lillian pulled away suddenly and stood, laughing.

“Jesus Christ, look at us…” she gestured to themselves. “We’re goddamn lipstick lesbians.”

She continued when Mena did not answer, “Good Gods,” still laughing she said, “Mena, I love you. Do you love me?”

Still no answer issued.

“Mena,” Lillian stooped to the floor where Mena lay, “Are you alright?”

Mena was shaking slightly, and staring off into space, trying to gather her courage.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled at last. “What if somebody sees us? This is unnatural …”

In an almost benevolent act, Lillian pulled Mena to her feet.
“Come.”

“Where – ”

“My room. Don’t worry, no one can see us there.”

The streets of Kennebec were usually cool and comforting to Mikhael Dorrick on his evening walks, but that night he was destined to be uneasy. All the houses on the street were darker than sin, but he still glimpsed a pair of guilty shadows dashing down the attic stairs, lit by a single lamp in the attic window.

* * *

“Mena?” Lillian rolled over to touch her lover.

“Mmmph,” came the reply.

“I love you.”

The sun rose in the sky, returning the sleeping people to the troubles of consciousness.

It suddenly occurred to Mena that for the first time in her in life, she had woken up in a bed she didn’t recognize. Memories returned in a breath, however, and she blushed.

“How can you be so bold?” she asked.

“What? Lying naked in the daytime?”

Mena nodded, studiously avoiding Lillian’s wanton pose.

“Practice, I suppose. We used to sunbathe naked in the old country all the time. Perhaps the practice fostered my exhibitionism.”

Lillian found her discomfiture very provocative, and began to stroke Mena’s arm.

“Tell me about the old country,” pleaded Mena.

Still touching the brunette’s arm, she said, “In the old country it is very balmy and even the terracotta statues sweat. There was a terrace in my old beautiful house which looked out to the whole countryside; and bathed in sunlight, I would make love to my husband on the verdant grass.”

“Here,” Lillian got up and pulled an object wrapped into tissue from a drawer. “This is from the old country.”

Mena unwrapped the parcel to reveal an ornate antique knife that was jeweled in the style of some exotic country.

“My husband gave it to me as a wedding gift before we left for the United States and changed our names. Look…” Lillian pointed to an indecipherable hieroglyphic on the base of the blade, “That is my real name – Roxanne. I was named for Alexander the Great’s mistress.”

Mena slipped the dagger into its sheath and dropped it carelessly in the pocket of her robes. She grasped Lillian’s arm, and searched her eyes “Teach me how to be brave like you.”

Lillian opened the windows, and lay down with her chin on Mena’s abdomen. “I’ll teach you how…” she smiled.

* * *

“We have to do something, you know,” Lillian murmured.

“What do you mean?” Mena stretched her legs. They’d done it almost everywhere in Lillian’s home. The veranda. The kitchen table. Mikhael’s pool table. She gave a mental grin.

“We can’t keep doing this in secret – our husbands aren’t complete imbeciles.”

“Yes they are,” Mena stayed steadfast on this point.

“Alright, fine. But we can’t keep doing this…”

“Why not? You love me, right?”

“Gods, I do, but…” Lillian kissed her softly, “I want to be able to do this, and not care what anyone thinks.”

Mena acquiesced. “What should I do?”

“I’ll make all the arrangements. Just pack your bags.”

“Okay.”

Free, Mena thought, I’ll finally be free…

VI

Mr. Mikhael Dorrick was not a man who could hold his drink, but he’d just downed two shots of bourbon during the search for his old gun. He waited until late afternoon to return home, when he was sure that Lillian had left to do God knows what. He spent the first hour drinking and the second formulating his plan. Now, all he needed was his gun.

He found it under his pool table, where he noted some rather odd scratches on the felt, as though fingernails had been scraping there in desperation.

The bourbon improved his disposition a little, and focused his thoughts as well. He had to do something about the two infidels he saw the previous night. He knew it had to be his Lillian and the James fellow from next door. Mikhael grew sad for a moment – he’d considered James an alright, if blustery, old fellow.

But at last he nodded his head with finality. Mr. Mikhael Dorrick knew exactly what he had to do.

* * *

Lillian waited on the veranda. Her bags were already loaded into her car, and the engine was on.

She felt for the train tickets in her purse again just to make sure they were still there. They were. Lillian didn’t like to think of herself as the weak or easily anxious, but nonetheless felt the need to calm herself by reading the tickets over. In smudged black ink, Lucinda Console font, it said:

ONE ADULT TICKET/
ADMIT TO S.E. ENGINE #340
ONE-WAY/ALBERTA COUNTY/WINSCONSIN
SEAT C-6/CAR A

She looked up, and saw Mena sneak across the fence in a green winter coat.

Mena’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, heady with joy, when she caught sight of familiar blonde hair. They embraced with an incestuous familiarity.

“Follow me,” she pulled Mena’s arm, and she obeyed.

Mena giggled as Lillian swept her up into her arms, and carried her to the passenger seat.

“Oh, you think that’s funny?” Lillian asked in jest, embellished by a raised eyebrow, “I suppose that makes me the butchy type—that means you get to be the little wife. Make me some breakfast, do my laundry—”

A singular, cold, click.
“Where is he?”

Mr. Mikhael Dorrick stood in the doorway, cradling his trusted Tommy gun. Lillian and Mena did not answer.

“I said, where is he?!”

He advanced towards them, but tripped on the stairs.

Lillian seized the opportunity. “Mena, go home, get James, call the police.”

Mena hurriedly ran through the door as a cold thwack not unlike the butt of a gun suddenly hit Lillian in the head.

“Bitch!”

Mikhael was weeping a little, and had propped himself up on his tool bench. “Roxanne,” he gurgled, “When our fathers promised us to each other, I loved you from that instant. This betrayal is something…entirely different.”

He began to rant. “I could have left you a thousand times for an American bitch, but I chose to stay with you – Roxanne!”
“Or should I say Lillian,” he mocked.

Lillian’s eyes flitted from the gun to its incensed owner.

“Roxanne,” he suddenly became very calm, sounding almost like his usual self, “I’m going to kill you now, according to laws of the old country.”

The gun cocked, he aimed—she prayed for Mena…

“Mikhael, don’t shoot!” A man’s voice pleaded. Mikhael turned from his target, “You!”

“Put down the gun,” pleaded James, “Let’s just calm down and discuss this.”

“You son of a bitch…” he muttered in a low voice.

“Mr. Dorrick, please, put down the gun. Why are you doing this?”

Mena felt in her pocket, and discovered the dagger she didn’t know she’d brought. Three things happened very quickly in the next four seconds. Mena saw Mikhael’s jaw relax – he was distracted by James’ question. Then, the arm wielding the shotgun lowered slightly, aiming its fatal head towards the ground.

Third, in a swift and unseen motion the dagger was pulled from its sheath and penned a deadly symbol forever into his vital organs.

He sputtered, and jerked; his gun rang out triumphantly, but it hit the ceiling. He crumpled like wet cardboard, and she stabbed him again. Each strike was calculated, rhythmic. Each blow was unforgettable, like a prayer.

When he writhed no more, Lillian pulled the wild-eyed brunette from the floor.

James was shaking a little from the murder. He gathered himself together a moment later, and mumbled something about calling the police. He exited the garage to search for a phone in the Dorricks’ house, leaving Mena in Lillian’s arms.

* * *

“Mena,” Lillian cradled the brunette, swinging her slightly, “Don’t be anxious, but we have to do something about James.”

Mena pushed the other woman off in shock, “What? Why?”

“Sweetie, we can’t leave now, not while he knows our plans.”

“But,” Mena’s voice grew to a whisper, “We don’t have to kill him. I’ve already killed a man today.” Her voice quavered at the word.

“But you must. I need you to do this for me. Don’t ask any questions. Take Mikhael’s gun, and shoot him while he’s still on the phone.”

“No, please,” Mena begged, “Roxanne – ”

“No questions. Do it.”

Lillian stared at Mena unflinchingly. “Do it.”

“Okay.”

Without even a grimace, Mena stooped over Mikhael’s body, which now resembled a teabag bloated with blood, and pulled the Tommy gun from his grasp. She wasn’t surprised when she held it – the gun felt sticky and rough, almost natural in her hands. Mena knew at that moment that she had been born to wield a gun.

She stepped into the house, concealing the weapon under her robe, and Lillian followed. Mena found James bent over the kitchen table, dialing the number ‘9’ on the keypad.

James smelled the subtle perfume of his wife waft about him suddenly, and he turned to greet his beloved, but instead, met the muzzle of a gun.

“Hello, James.”

* * *
“Mena, what the hell is going on?”

“I think I’m going to blast your brains all over the kitchen floor.”

“Let’s be serious. Put that gun away. I have to call the police and report the murder.”

“Jesus,” Mena was infuriated, “You don’t listen, do you? I have the goddamn gun, and for once, you have to listen to me.”

“You don’t even know how to use a gun, Mena,” he even had the gall to drop his gaze from hers, and dial a ‘1’.

She cocked the gun. “Don’t you dare finish dialing that number. Don’t you dare.”

“Come on, shoot him,” came the voice of the Devil beside her, “Then we can be free.”

Be serious, just shoot him, do what I say—

All the voices, the commands – they overwhelmed her. Some might say she was overtaken by anger and shock, others might say she’d developed a taste for blood, but the fact is, there were 2 shots in the next 3 seconds.

Lillian gurgled, and black blood poured from her liver.

James ran to embrace his wife. “Mena,” he cried, “I knew you wouldn’t let that crazy bitch push you around. Everything’s alright now, we can call the police. We can plead self-defense.”

“James?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

A bejeweled blade slipped with ease into James’ ribcage, as if the flesh were a second sheath. He fell to the floor rather gracefully.

Mena sighed. There was a lot of cleaning to do before Uncle Drew dropped the children back at their house. She stacked the bodies in the basement, took out a few plastic buckets, and mopped the blood off the kitchen floor.

Just as any good wife or mother would.


The End.