The Other Woman

         It took Joe Thompson three long days to choose the dress to bury his wife in. Joe knew Francine's choice, and he knew the dress the children wanted their mother to be buried in, but Joe did not choose either of those dresses.

         From the very back of the closet, Joe pulled out a silky, black, evening gown adorned with crimson lace. He retrieved a hatbox from the top shelf. His decision was made. He just wondered why he hadn’t thought of this obvious choice sooner.

         On the evening Francine was murdered, Joe heard the voice for the first time. On Saturday night just before 12am, the police knocked on his door. “I’m sorry Mr. Thompson. It’s your wife. She was killed this evening.” The officer would go on to explain that she had died from a shotgun blast to the face and that her body was found outside a popular gay bar up-town. Francine had been seen dancing with and kissing an unidentified female inside the bar that night.

         Joe was a small, weak man. He was even less strong emotionally, so this news was much more than he could take. Joe fell to the ground. His world was spinning and deep within his brain he heard the high-pitched voice laughing and singing in a childish nursery-rhymed tone: Your wife was a unfaithful…your wife was unfaithful...

         Joe spread his wife’s soon to be eternal attire out on the bed. He pulled a strawberry blonde wig out of the hatbox. Placing the artificial hair above the neck of the dress, he draped the long curly locks about the shoulders. He studied his material representation of a female. He hummed softly as he lovingly stroked it. A momentary panic hit him when he saw a stain on the right sleeve, but just as quickly, he shook his head and with a painful laugh. He said to himself: “It’s gonna’ be a closed casket, for god’s sake.” Again, stroking his creation he whispered, “Francie, baby, you won’t mind will ya'? Considering what some monster did to my beautiful girl’s face...” Joe broke down crying. Competing with tears of grief, there were tears of anger and confusion. He could not fathom why Francine had been seen in that bar with a woman. Joe was thankful that Francine’s mother was keeping the girls this week. It was a relief knowing his children didn’t have to see the state their father was in.

         A doorbell interrupted the grieving husband’s tears. Joe pulled himself together and answered the door. It was just another well wisher bringing more food. Joe had accepted yet another casserole while feigning an appreciative smile.

         Alone again, Joe wearily made his way back upstairs. By the time he reached the top step, the familiar tears were back. He walked into the bedroom and screamed at the clothes on the bed, “It’s all your fault!”

         You don’t really believe that do you? The voice inside his head questioned.

         Joe snatched the dress and wig from the bed, dried his eyes with his sleeve, and ran from the room.

***

         “How are you doing, Joe?” Asked the young funeral director who wore a sympathetic smile.

         Joe handed the dress and wig to the young man, and answered, “Well Marcus, are you familiar with the 5 stages of grief?”

         “Let’s see...that would be: denial, anger, bargaining...uh...depression and finally, acceptance."

         “Very good!” Joe replied with a sad smile. “But, I think I’m ready to amend that theory."

         “Yes?” Marcus mirrored a smile back.

         “Yep. I think somewhere between depression and acceptance, there should be the ‘old lady casserole’ stage. If I receive one more casserole, I think I’m gonna scream.” Joe tried to laugh.

         “Maybe the ‘old lady casserole’ stage, is the depression.”

         Joe reached out and hugged Marcus in a half sob and half laugh. “Maybe you’re right.”

         Back at home, there was a message on the machine.

***

         Joe arrived at the police precinct as per Detective Anderson’s instruction. The detective pointed to a hard wooden chair across from his desk.

         “You needed to see me again?” The visibly haggard Joe asked.

         “You passed the lie detector test.” There was no emotion in his voice.

         “Of course.” Joe answered calmly. Then with a little more passion, “I can’t believe you would even think...”

         “I know.” The detective said with understanding. “ Mr. Thompson, I’m sorry, nothing personal; it’s just procedure.”

         “That’s OK...I understand.” Joe answered with a nod, then lowered his face in his hands.

         “There was one tiny red flag though.”

         Joe looked up, “Yes?”

         “The only questions that came up inconclusive were the ones dealing with whether you knew who killed your wife,” The detective remarked while carefully studying Joe’s reactions.

         “That’s easy!” Joe spoke in an upset tone. “I do know who the murderer is.”

         “And who would that be?”

         “You find that witch, that my wife was dating, and you’ll find the killer!” Joe leaned forward in his seat. Tiny beads of sweat erupted on his forehead. “Some lesbian killed my wife because my wife loved me! She may have been unfaithful, but no matter what, Francine...my Francie loved me more than anyone. Francine was murdered in cold blood because some devil was jealous and I won’t rest until the murderer gets what’s comin’ to her!” Joe’s frail body was shaking. He slumped back down in his seat.

         “Actually, Mr. Thompson,” Detective Anderson began, “I tend to agree with several of your points. Speaking of which, we do have a couple of pictures of the unidentified female and your wife."

         Joe was suddenly back on the edge of his seat. “Oh my god! Really! That’s wonderful…. How…?”

         “The shop across the street had a surveillance camera. Unfortunately, we only have a couple of poor grade, black and white shots; but it’s a start.” The detective handed the photos to Joe. “Do you recognize her?”

         As Joe studied the pictures, he felt a removed type of recognition. All of a sudden, the voice was back and screeching loudly, scratching out a path deep in his brain: You know, don’t cha’ pal! Com’mon, you idiot. It may be black and white, but you know that I’m wearing a black dress with crimson lace...and you love the way my long strawberry blonde hair falls over my shoulders...don’t cha’. Go ahead and tell him!

         “No!” Joe screamed to the voice.

         “Do you recognize her?” The confused detective stood up.

         Joe leapt from his seat. The chair toppled to the floor. “NO!” He yelled, trying to drown out that wretched voice. He threw the photos on the desk.

         The Detective held out one hand toward Joe. “Now Joe, it’s all right if you don’t know who it is—we’ll find her. You’ve got to try to stay calm, buddy.

         Through his anguished sobs, Joe apologized, “I’m sorry...”

         “It’s OK,” Detective Anderson said with understanding in his voice. He walked around his desk and placed his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Trust me, Mr. Thompson. We will catch the person that took your wife from you."

         “Thank you, Detective Anderson,” Joe muttered through his tears.

***

         Joe Thompson sat between his two girls at the funeral. He was determined to be strong for them. Even though the voice was more clear and constant today, he tried not to pay attention. He could manage a smile knowing it was almost over. Joe refused to leave his wife’s graveside until he was assured of the completion of her eternal rest.

         You can’t do this! The voice screamed.

         Joe smiled and remained silent.

         Stop! I’m warning you! It screamed all the more loudly as the casket was lowered into the vault.

         Joe smiled and remained silent.

         The first shovel of dirt fell with an echoed thud on the casket lid. The voice was in extreme panic, You crazy fool! Can’t you see that Francine wasn’t cheating on you! I am you! You are me!

         Another scoop of dirt and Joe could barely hear the smothered scream, She loved you and that’s why she put up with your perverted cross-dressing ass!

         The voice was now muffled completely into nothingness. Joe was alone in his head once more.

         Hand in hand in hand, Joe Thompson walked his girls, back to their car. He helped them into their seats, and then, before getting in himself, he turned back toward the newly filled grave.

         With a tear in his eye, Joe spoke aloud: “I hope you both rest in peace.”