MARISA

By Janet Baldey

She was sitting in the window-seat, her silhouette framed by an aureole of gold.  As he crossed the room towards her, he saw her eyes were misty and far-away as she gazed into the garden and Harry thought he had never seen anyone more beautiful.  He felt a rush of tenderness as he thought of how much he loved her.

           “I’m off now love.”  He planted a kiss on her forehead.  She started and an almost imperceptible frown marred the perfection of her face before she lifted her head to acknowledge his embrace.

           As she heard the slam of the door, she felt a rush of relief.  Rising, she ran up the stairs and into her bedroom; standing in front of a full-length mirror, she stretched voluptuously, relishing the way her kimono clung to her figure.  Heat flooded through her; she wished Steve was with her now and she looked towards the bed feeling a tingle of delicious anticipation.  She couldn’t wait to see him again, last evening had been so perfect.

          She stood in the shower feeling the spray hard against her body.  With dawning delight, she remembered that Harry was due to start night shifts tomorrow.  It was perfect timing; she and Steve could spend the whole night together.  She didn’t have his telephone number, he was always forgetting to give it to her, but she knew where he lived, so she would drop a discreet note through his door.  Impatient now, she switched off the shower and grabbed a towel.

          Outside, the sun beat down on her unprotected head like a bar of iron as she swung along the street, her short skirt flirting against her thighs.  Clutched in her hand was a scribbled note and two letters for the post.  As she neared the familiar red post box on the corner, she darted a quick glance left towards the road junction and gasped as her heart started to pound.  She recognised the sleek, green Jaguar held by the lights – it was his car and if she was quick, she could catch him.  She thrust the letters into the box and raced down the street.  

 

          The back of Harry’s shirt was dark with sweat and damp rings circled his armpits as he heaved himself out of the van into evening air heavy with humidity.  Last box, thank God.  He licked his lips; he could almost taste the ice-cold lager he’d treat himself to when he got home.  As he unlocked the post box, an avalanche of letters flowed into his sack.  With a grunt he stooped to pick it up and as he did, he noticed a slip of paper caught in the grill.  Shopping list he thought, they were always being posted by mistake.  Plucking it out, a name caught his attention.  It was an unusual name and he’d always liked the exotic images it conjured when he whispered it in her ear.  Marisa, his wife’s name.  He looked closer and smiled cynically, not a shopping list it was obviously a lover’s tryst.  He was about to screw it into a ball when he froze as he recognised something else, the telephone number.  It was the one he dialled every time he was late home.  For an instant he stood very still, then mechanically, he closed the post box.  As if in a trance, he put his van into gear and drove to the sorting office, where, with a smile glued to his face, he responded to the banter of his colleagues until it was time to leave.

          Several pubs and several lagers later, he dragged himself home.  Inside, the house was in darkness except for a thin, yellow line underneath the kitchen door.   Without turning on the lights, he turned into the living room and flung himself down in an armchair and sat watching creeping shadows change familiar furniture into hump-backed monsters.

          Eventually, the door opened and light flooded in.  He heard her give a little gasp then,

          “Whatever are you doing, sitting in the dark?”  He didn’t answer and she shrugged and went back into the kitchen.  He heard her moving about, heard the clattering of plates and the hiss of the kettle.  Still, he sat, dull-eyed, staring at nothing.

          Impatiently, she swept into the room again.  “Are you coming, or what?”

          He sat at the table, pushing food about his plate.  Marisa sat opposite, eating with quick, economical bites.  At last, she put down her knife and fork and looked at him, a brittle smile stretching her mouth.

          “So, what time are you leaving for work tomorrow?”

          “Not going to work.”

          There was a pause; he kept his eyes fixed on his plate.

          “I thought you were starting nights?” 

          “Change of plan.  I’m taking a few days off.  Thought we could go away for a break.”  Even to his own ears, his voice sounded thick and unnatural.  He waited as silence deadened the room.  Eventually, he looked up and it felt as though someone had punched him.  She was staring at him, disappointment etched into the contours of her face.  It was all the proof he needed.

          “What’s his name?”

          Her eyes widened.

          He flung the crumpled note towards her.  “His name?”

          As she sat motionless, he noticed a small pulse beating rapidly in the base of her neck.

          Suddenly, he rose and pounded upstairs to their bedroom where he began wrenching open drawers and burrowing his thick hands into the froth of her lingerie.  At last, he found what he was looking for.

          “What are you doing?”  Behind him, her voice was high and razor sharp.

          Flicking through the pages of her diary, he took no notice.  Suddenly, he stopped and his shoulders slumped.  “Steve.”  Anger twisted his features.  “You whore.”

          “Give me that.”  She grabbed for the book.

          His arm pistoned towards her and she fell backwards onto the bed.   His face reddened and veins knotted his neck.  “I trusted you and you creep around like an alley cat.  Why Marisa?  I’ve bought you everything you ever wanted.  I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for you.  I thought we were happy.”

          She scrambled off the bed, her eyes blazing.

          “You fool” she sneered.  “You thought you could buy me?  Well, let me tell you, Postman Pat, you are just a joke.  An ugly, clumsy joke.  I’ve never loved you.  How could anyone love you?  You say you’ve bought me things but I’ve paid for them.  I pay for them every time your stinking body comes anywhere near me.  I lie there in the dark, with you on top of me, paying for them.  Here, give me that!”  She snatched the diary out of his hands and riffled through its pages and held it out towards him.  “Look.”

          He stared in horror as one scarlet nail traced a list of names.  He recognised most of them, some friends of his, others pillars of society.  Her voice rose, becoming strident and ugly.  He stared at her contorted face; this was someone he didn’t know any more.

          “Everyone was better than you!  They satisfy me more in one hour than you have in the whole of our marriage…..”  Her voice stopped abruptly as his hand knifed towards her and caught her full in the throat.  Bunching his fists, he hit her again and again until she fell to the floor.  He loomed over her, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his face.  Gradually, he brought himself under control.  She lay very still and he noticed that her head was twisted to one side.

          “Marisa?”  Tentatively, touched her fallen body with his foot.  She never stirred.  He dropped to one knee and tried to straighten her head.  Tenderly, he brushed back her hair that had fallen over her face.  “Marisa?” he repeated, panic trembling his voice.  Bitter bile erupted into his mouth and he retched.  He felt weak and dazed.  Groggily, he got to his feet and went into the bathroom where he turned the shower full on and thrust his head under its icy spray.  He perched on the edge of the bath for a long time feeling so weary he could have slept for a week.  He tried to think but thoughts buzzed around inside his head like a swarm of angry bees.  Finally, he returned to the bedroom and looked down at his wife.  She looked so young and vulnerable lying where she’d fallen.  Gently, he picked her up, laid her on the bed and lay down beside her.  As if an invisible hand had snapped off a switch, he was instantly asleep.

          Harry woke as the first birds heralded the new day.  At first, he wondered why he was lying fully dressed on the bed.  Then, he remembered and sat bolt upright.  Nothing had changed, the room was still in turmoil and Marisa was still lying beside him, as stiff and white as a marble statue.  He gathered her into his arms, and sat with his head bowed, a storm of sobs shaking his body. Eventually, he became calmer and when he next looked up it was as if, along with his tears, his soul had flooded out of his body.  His eyes were dry and hard and his face was grim.

          He looked at his dead wife and love disappeared as resentment took its place.  He had never been a violent man but he could only stand so much.   She had brought this on herself and he had no intention of paying the price for something that was not his fault. 

          After a cup of hot, black coffee, his head cleared.  He looked at his watch, he was already late for work.  Over the phone, he had no trouble convincing his supervisor that he was ill, his hoarse croak did that for him.  He sat, deep in thought, a few months earlier he had arrived back home to find Marisa watching one of her favourite television programmes – Price Drop TV.  She had sat avidly watching he screen, her hand hovering over the telephone.  He’d sighed.  Already the house groaned with the so-called ‘bargains’ she had accumulated.  As she put in a bid for a set of heavy-duty steel knives, including a cleaver, he had jokingly asked if she was thinking of taking up butchery.  Now, he grinned sardonically.

 

          Three days later, he went back to work.  His colleagues were shocked at his appearance, gone was the spruce, genial giant with twinkles in his eyes, now his face was gaunt and morose and stubble clung to his chin.

          “Are you alright, mate?  You look really rough.  ‘Flu was it?”

          “Wife’s done a bunk,” he muttered, picking up a mailbag, he shuffled out of the door.

          From then on, he avoided his friends and sat alone in the canteen.  Conversation at the adjoining tables grew stilted as he ate his solitary meal, only picking up again when he left the room.

          “Poor bugger.  He doted on that floozie…” the voice trailed away as it was kicked into silence for fear of its carrying power.

          As the days passed, no-one took any particular notice of the little red post van as it buzzed around the countryside, delivering letters, parcels, and packages.  No-one noticed the number of times it was to be seen parked near woods, copses and lonely fields.  No-one noticed the mud that frequently stained the bottom of his trousers and coated the soles of his shoes.

          Summer had fled, autumn was dwindling, soon it would be winter and the ground would freeze.  Normally, winter is hard on wild animals, but this year, they would feed well.

 

Copyright Janet Baldey