“Curse you, Sally. I’ve been dieting for two weeks and this cake is just going to wreck it! I haven’t even touched a bite yet, and I’ve probably gained two pounds!” said Julie, the slim brunette from across the street.

     “Well, what are neighbors for?” returned Sally. She gave a tight-lipped grin, following up with her characteristic gentle tilt of the head and blue-eyed wink. Her husband had appreciated this as a cute mannerism early in their marriage. “I’ve just finished the icing, so it should be good to go by dinner time. I should warn you, the batch of rum involved means this is off-limits to the kiddies—more for you to savor.”

     “Rum…yum-yum. I’ll pay for this later on.” said Julie. She towered over Sally, wearing laced sandals which added about two inches to her five-foot-seven-inches. “It’s just so hard to keep the pounds off, especially at my age.” She waited for the flattering reply she could savor.

     Sally responded to Julie’s setup, “Oh, come on now, Julie, have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You could stand to add a few, skinny-minnie.” Sally moved a stray lock of her strawberry blonde hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear as she started to slide the cake into a Tupperware container. She then capped it off with aluminum foil. The superficial compliment met a quiet wave of the hand and roll of the eyes from Julie.

     “Now, you take this,” said Sally, “it’s only half a cake. John loves this stuff. If he knew I’d given a whole cake away, he’d probably kill me.” She handed the cake to Julie, who leaned over to scoop the Tupperware into her arms.

     “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” giggled Julie.

     “No, of course not.” answered Sally with her signature tilt and wink.

     “Ta-ta.” Julie waved as she backed her way from the kitchen screen door and out of the garage. The screen door met the jamb with a  hollow sound, signaling to Sally the end of the charade. The kitchen, minus the insincerity and forced conversation, now stood quiet.

     Interaction in the neighborhood always seemed forced. People living in such close proximity felt like they had to live up to the neighborly way of life. Some folks were friendlier than others, and in Sally’s mind, a particular neighbor named Julie seemed too friendly. Sally watched Julie from the screen door saunter down the driveway, disgusted that nothing on her 43-year-old frame wiggled or jiggled. The only thing that bounced on Julie’s hourglass frame were her saline-inflated breasts.

     The men in the neighborhood also took notice. It wasn’t out of the norm for men jogging along the road early in the morning to tweak their ankles trying to watch Julie water her petunias in the front garden in her low cut t-shirt, or for those erection-burdened men to offer to carry her grocery bags in from the car while she wore those out-of-style hot pants. If she needed a light bulb replaced, there would be twelve sex-hungry men in line offering to screw it in (the light bulb, that is). 

     As far as the neighborhood knew, Julie’s husband was a high-rolling securities trader who spent a lot of time at his clients’ sites, which translates into a lot of travel and a lot of time away from home. She was the stereotypical rich, lonely housewife, starving for attention. Even though Julie didn’t work, she sent her kids off to day care. She even hired a babysitter to pick them up. Yet, those annoying traits were not what irked Sally so much about Julie. It was something closer to the heart.

     John pulled up the driveway in his new BMW convertible, ensnaring Julie’s attention. Sally witnessed their interlude with great interest from the kitchen while she cut up vegetables for their dinner. John managed to break himself away from Julie and continue up the drive; pulling out his newspaper, he started to read the front page as he entered the house.

     “Hey there.” said John.

     “Hi. How was your day?”

     John looked up from his paper as if something had just occurred to him, asking, “Wow, what are you doing home? I thought you were staying another week?”

     “Oh, Mother started feeling better. She finally kicked that nasty cough. Her X-rays came back negative and she told me I should come back home.” John looked slightly embarrassed, almost guilty, like a child  caught by his parents just before committing mischief. He nervously searched through his satchel, looking for a mysterious item he had just made up in his imagination, definitely trying to distract himself.

     “Besides, one week away is far too much. I  don’t think this household could have lasted another.” Sally said with a smile.

     Sally was a proud homemaker, but not perfect. Her dishes had spots, her laundry folds usually didn’t meet at the edges, and her coffee tables were in need of light dusting. But she had been a devoted wife, who sincerely cared for her husband. “So, again I’ll ask, how was your day?”

     John stopped fumbling with his satchel, and muttered, “Same old, same old…stressful, cutthroat, backstabbing…things I won’t bore you with—you know, corporate stuff.” John used this phrase nearly every time he came home; Sally didn’t really need to ask. He had expectations and a set routine.

     The newspaper was just the start; he would enter the house with his nose buried in it. Soon he would plop down his satchel on the kitchen floor and lay his paper across the kitchen island as he continued to read. The shoes would come off, lying there until Sally picked up and put them in the closet. After a few more minutes of ignoring his wife, he would retreat upstairs to change his clothes, which had become a narcissistic ritual of admiring his physique in the bedroom mirror, while continuing to deny his receding hairline—same routine, day after day.

     Upon his return to the kitchen, John noticed something out of place. No stew cooked on the stove, and no roast baked in the oven, but there was a cake. The cake was double-layered chocolate with two coats of icing, just the way John liked it—sitting on the table, whetting his appetite.

     “Hey, you made cake today!”

     “Of course, your favorite, double chocolate,” said Sally. She stopped cutting the vegetables with her sharp paring knife and replaced it with a fork she retrieved from the drawer. Sally slid the cake closer to John, withholding the fork.

     “What’s the occasion?”

     “Well, many things,” she said, holding the fork up to her mouth, her left hand on her hip as she thought of reasons to surprise her husband. “Mother is on the mend…I feel liberated.” This brought a smile to her face. “And I just thought I might break up your routine a bit. You’ve been so stressed the last few months, I thought this might help—a quick pick-me-up when you got home. Aren’t you glad I’m back early?”

     “Sure. Where’s the other half?” asked John, eyeing the cake.

     Sally bit her lip, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and thought a moment longer. She finally handed the fork over to John. “Oh, I baked this earlier, and had a surprise visit from our neighbor Julie. She didn’t realize I’d come back to town a few days early. I couldn’t send her home empty-handed. Milk?”

     “Sure.” answered John. He took his first bite and his eyes rolled back into his head. “This is so good.” John’s demeanor changed for the better, almost like a spoiled-rotten child, who finally gets his way after an argument with his parents. He took another bite, then another. After a few minutes, John had devoured what amounted to three pieces of cake.

     “Boy, I’m not going to have any room for dinner. I’ll probably need an extra ten minutes on the treadmill.” said John. He sat back, and wiped his chocolaty mouth clean with a napkin, which he dropped on the table.

     “Nonsense, you just keep on eating.” said Sally. Again, she performed her trademark mannerism, tilting her head and smiling. “There’ll be plenty of room later on.”

     John didn’t argue. He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his fork and proceeded to eat another piece of cake.

     Another five minutes passed. Sally finished with the vegetables and moved on to the tomatoes, the small black paring knife now replaced by a large, serrated knife. Sally looked over at John, who had returned his attention to the front page of the newspaper. After chopping up two tomatoes with dazzling speed and accuracy, she set the knife down and looked at John.

     “John, I had an interesting visit with my mother.”

     “Really?” John never looked up. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

     “Well, funny you should mention it…” She moved over to the table and sat down next to John with her hands neatly folded in front of her, posture innocent and upright, the way she had been brought up. Good manners and posture reflected her mother’s influence. “After she got a clean bill of health, Mother had some interesting news for me. You see, I’ve been having this feeling, this problem.”

     “You don’t say.” John, as usual, showed no interest in Sally’s attempt to make conversation. The afternoon newspaper reported major construction flaws in the newly-built city commerce center, obviously more important than what Sally had to say.

     “Yes, and I was going to talk to you about it, but Mother had an even better idea.”

     John started to blink his eyes. He had trouble focusing on the words in his newspaper, which appeared blurred and distorted. After a few blinks, he began to rub them. Sally hardly took notice to John’s visual discomfort.

     “Mother always has the best advice in situations like this. Do you want to hear?” Sally asked, eager to tell her story. She leaned in toward the table as if she had been waiting all day to let this secret out.

     John continued to blink and rub his eyes. His head started to sway, first in small circles, then in more pronounced revolutions. “Sal, I’m, I’m not feeling so well now. I’m feeling really dizzy all of a sudden,” slurred John. He placed his hands on the table in a futile attempt to stabilize himself.

     Sally paid no attention to John’s impending dilemma and merely continued her story. “Well, she was explaining to me that if you mix a small amount of pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride together, it can paralyze the respiratory system and stop the heart in a matter of minutes.” She smiled. “It’s like being choked to death and having a massive coronary at the same time. Chocolate cake just ‘makes it go down easier,’ you know, like you always tell me.”

     John tried to comprehend what his Suzy Homemaker wife had just revealed to him. The room started to spin. His eyes widened and he gripped the table, trying to keep his balance. John’s breathing became labored, and he started to sweat. He prayed she was kidding.

     “Mother was always the best pathologist on the medical board when she worked at County Memorial. It’s amazing the little things that stick with you when you retire. Attention to detail is her strong suit.” Sally stared at the blank white wall. “I’m bored with this lifestyle, but could tolerate it…until now,” she turned her attention back to John. “What you did was just too much. But, I will admit, I’m rather curious to see this transpire. Oh, John, dear, you’re sweating. ” Sally got up from the table and shut the door which led to the garage. She moved to close the kitchen blinds. “The evening sun is always so intense in here. That should help.”

     “By now, you probably don’t have much feeling in your legs.” Sally continued, watching John try to stand and immediately fall to the floor, his eyes bulging out of their sockets as he struggled for air.

     “I think this calls for a celebration,” said Sally, giggling. She moved to the adjacent dining room and inspected the bottles of wine from the wine rack. “Let’s see…merlot, chardonnay, no…ah, here!” She plucked up the bottom bottle, “White zinfandel, Julie’s favorite. Oh look. It’s been opened.”

     John tried to reach for the cell phone latched to his belt, and tried to pry it loose. His body arched, and he started to roll over on his side, still fumbling with the latch on his flip-top cell phone.

     Sally returned to the kitchen, noticing his attempt to contact somebody. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, John, you won’t be needing that any more.” She kicked the cell phone from his belt and jabbed the one-inch heel of her shoe into his belly. “No more late-night meetings, client dinners…or worries…where you’re going.”

     There was a groan from John, who could no longer speak. He tried to call out for help, but only fell silent with each attempt.

     Sally looked down at John. Turning away from her decaying husband, she peered into the glass cabinet that contained the wine glasses. “If you don’t mind…” Sally opened the cabinet and poured herself a glass of the white zinfandel. “I’d pour you a glass, but, as you know, you can’t use your arms or hands anymore. Here’s a toast, anyway, to liberation…” Sally held the glass high and swallowed the entire contents in one gulp. She winced as the taste of the cheap liquor stayed in her mouth.

     “I can’t believe that bitch could drink this stuff. She’s not a serious wine drinker.” Sally knelt down beside her dying husband. She sat properly, hands clasped, just like she had been taught. “I know you were fucking her.”

     John strained to look up at Sally, to shake his head in denial. His neck had started to stiffen, his blinks grown long and heavy, and saliva leaked from his open mouth. He then understood death waited for him.

     “I know she came over here today to get fucked again. She was as surprised to see me here baking as I was to find her with our garage door code.” Sally reached up to the island and grabbed the zinfandel. Pouring another glass, she continued, “I’m a good wife. I cook, clean, do the laundry, have sex when I don’t want to, and make sacrifices. You couldn’t give me children, but I never complained. All the while, you were running around, traveling, fucking Lord-knows-who. I guess when you shoot blanks, there’s not much accountability. And that bitch across the street is blessed with two kids she doesn’t even raise, and she pawns off on her nanny. Well, Mother decided I should not take it any more.”

     John started to tear up. Tears bubbled on his eyelids until they burst and slid down his face. Sally stroked his hair. “Oh, Baby,” she said in a mothering tone, “Shhhh, don’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about now. Soon it will all be over. Mother says digestion stops, basic functions follow suit, and you lose the ability to swallow. It will be just a few minutes of suffocation… Remember, I’ve had years of it.”

     John started to gurgle, the first sign of his choking. His lungs were seizing up, as was his diaphragm.  Death would be taking him soon.

     Sally took another drink from her glass, followed by another sour face brought on by the cheap wine. She had a revelation she just couldn’t resist telling John, “I’m glad you forced me to watch those stupid sports, especially staying up late to watch those championships. I know why they celebrate with champagne and not zinfandel. Yuk.”

     Sally took one final look at John. She set her glass aside and caressed his face. “There’s one more thing I need to share before you move on to more important things.” Even though John stared straight ahead, trapped in a failing body, experiencing a slow death, Sally could tell some part of him still heard her, at least she hoped so.

     She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “I’ve never had an orgasm with you. All of those times over the years, I faked every one of them. The closest I’ve ever come to climaxing with you is here, right now, this very moment.” Sally laid her head on John’s chest, exacerbating his already failing respiratory system. “Oh, and it is satisfying.”

     She snuggled close to him. “All those years of just going with the flow, closing my eyes, wishing it was over…or at least that you gave a crap, it’s amazing what a vibrator and an endless supply of Duracells can do for you.” Sally had a smirk on her face, finally satisfied with herself. She stared off in a daze for a few moments, enjoying the afterglow; then, with a deep sigh, she regained her senses.

     Sally lifted herself off of John’s sinking chest. “Well, it’s time for me to get back to my mother’s. It’s so nice to have family who will stick by me in moments of need, you know, to vouch for my whereabouts during certain times of the day, just in case anybody might ask. Mother knows this scrupulous lawyer too. She says he’d sell his soul to the Devil himself for the right price. It’s nice to have someone like that in your back pocket, just in case folks go snooping around.” She checked her watch. “She should be here soon to pick me up. What’s the saying? ‘Blood is thicker than water’? Funny, I imagine your blood is pretty thick right now, about the consistency of tar?” Her rant was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.

     Sally patted John on his bloated stomach. “You keep quiet now, and don’t go anywhere.” She hopped up and carried her wine glass with her over to the phone. Much to her surprise, Julie’s voice buzzed on the other end.

     “Julie, funny you should call.” said Sally. Even the phone line had the capability of filling up with insincerity. Sally paused to give Julie time to finish her thought. “Really, that’s so sweet of you. I’m glad you liked the cake.”

     John’s body let out one last loud rumble, almost as if his intestines had just ruptured. Moments later, he fell completely quiet: no more labored breath, no more strange growls and gurgles. Sally raised her finger to her mouth as if to shush his body, telling the corpse to keep quiet while she chit-chatted on the phone.   

     She continued her conversation. “Really? Remember, there’s rum involved, so keep the kids away… Wonderful. It was my pleasure… Yes, let’s do it again sometime soon, Julie…hello… Julie, are you all right?” Sally smiled again, hung up the phone…and took another victory sip. 

The End

Jeff Rockwell, jrockwel@columbus.rr.com, wrote “The Good Wife.” He describes it as “a macabre [piece] about a typical American housewife, who finally gets fed up with her typical American husband’s cheating ways. After suspecting for some time her husband’s infidelity, she takes matters into her own hands, as only a happy homemaker would do.” Jeff Rockwell resides in Columbus, Ohio. Ever since 1977, when he saw Star Wars for the first time, he knew he wanted to write. While working on his craft, he searches for the ‘Original Idea.’ Although he suspects this notion no longer exists, he continues his search every night through his writing, living the maxim: The desire to tell stories is the desire to write.