Pink and Perfumed

I put out the challenge to my women writers group this week to write a story that incorporated certain words in the text.Well, of course, I included myself in the challenge. The assigned words were: magazine, she froze for a moment then, clever, it doesn't matter


Spilling the mail on the floor as she tripped over the entry way rug, Margo cursed under her breath. She watched as the new home design magazine slid across the freshly polished mahogany floor. Flinched inwardly as it ended up against the closet door, cover flipped back, crinkled, and slightly torn.

“Well, aren't you the clever one.” She muttered crossly. “Dan’s bound to be unhappy about that one.” Stomping to the closet, she grabbed the magazine as one would grab an offensive child by his collar. She smoothed the pages down and shoved loose inserts back inside, kicking off her boots as she did so. 

Satisfied with her efforts to restore order to Dan’s precious periodical, she slapped it down on the side table along with her car keys. Shrugging out of her jacket she marched back to the door to gather the rest of the wayward mail. Having grabbed the mail from the outside box on her way up the walk, she’d not yet scanned the contents and now took the opportunity to do so. Flipping past utility bills and bank statements, she smelled it before she saw it. Pink and petite, addressed to Dan in a loopy feminine handwriting, the perfume wafted up and tickled her nose.

She froze for a moment, then using her thumb and forefinger extracted the letter carefully. She flipped it over. No return address. Her golden-green eyes narrowed to slits. What the heck? Margo tapped the letter against the palm of her hand contemplating her next move.

She could set it on the hallway table with the rest of the mail and watch Dan’s reaction when he came home and saw it. She’d be able to tell a lot by his face. Poker-face was not a word you would use to describe Dan by any means. Would she confront him then and demand to know what was going on?

Or she could open it, obviously, and find out just who this brazen woman was and know exactly what was going on. She wouldn’t need to wait for some limp excuse, or worse, something she wasn’t ready to face.

Carefully now she laid the letter down on the kitchen counter and put some water on for tea. Paced back and forth across the tile kitchen as she waited for the water to heat. Picked up the letter. Set it back down. Paced some more.

When the tea kettle began to emit its whistle, Margo snatched the letter back up. Holding the letter in one hand she moved the tea kettle off the burner. What if the seal of the letter just happened to be in the path of hot steam… what then?

Lips pursed, Margo allowed the envelope to dangle in front of the tea kettle. Eyes wide with fascination she watched as the envelope flap curled slightly. Forgetting the tea making, she slipped one perfectly manicured finger against the flap and slightly under. With just a little more pressure the seal would give and the letter would be opened.

Aware she was about to cross a line she forced herself to take a deep breath and reevaluate the situation. Was not her and Dan’s relationship built on trust? Did she really believe something less than honorable might be going on here?

Yes, she reasoned, she did trust Dan. It was the sender of the fragrant letter that she wasn’t sure about. She laid the card back on the counter and crossed her arms.  

Slowly she began ticking off all the reasons she could think of that someone would write to Dan using pink and perfumed wiles.

Perhaps it was a thank you note. Dan volunteered often with Habitat for Humanity. It could be from one of the office gals. Or maybe it was from an aunt. She couldn’t remember Dan mentioning an aunt but she was willing to give the benefit of the doubt here.

After that, Margo was stumped. Suddenly her face brightened. “Oh! I know! Maybe it’s a gift card for me and Dan wants to surprise me with it later!” Then, “But why would they send it looking all girly-girl and smelling like…” she took a closer whiff. “… Vanilla Musk”

She slapped her hand against her forehead. Of course. Vanilla Musk. Her favorite. Available only from the Secret Pantry, where she had added Dan’s name to their mailing list a few months ago to help him remember upcoming events. Like their anniversary.

Her cheeks flushed, she hastened to the hallway table and laid the letter carefully among the rest of the mail.

“And if I’m wrong, it doesn’t matter. I trust Dan.”

Her decision made, Margo returned to the kitchen for her forgotten cup of tea. 

Ah, Saturday

I slept in as I usually do on Saturdays. Totally oblivious to the movements of my husband as he prepared to leave to his weekly men's breakfast & bible study, I only snuggled deeper under the covers when he bussed my cheek. That's the way it goes on Saturday. It's the one day of the week I eschew wifey-kitchen duties in favor of the extra hours of sleep that I always feel deprived of the rest of the week. With my sweetie assured of a hearty breakfast at his men's gathering, I can relax; he will be well fed. 

When I finally rousted and slouched my way to the kitchen in search of a bottomless mug of coffee, the blaze in the woodstove drew me in. I traded my bed covers for a blanket and nestled into my recliner with my toes as close to the woodstove as I dared to go. My unfinished mystery novel laid on the side table, begging me to finish and without an restrictions to hinder me, read is what I did. I was reaching the all important mystery reveal when my cell phone, tucked deep in my bathrobe pocket, began to vibrate and then my ringtone pierced the silence of my retreat. 

I dug under my blanket and wrestled with pulling it from my pocket,and when I saw who was calling a sense of foreboding came over me. One of the last things I said last night before we drifted off to sleep was that he could take my car in the morning but it was on empty and he'd need to fill it. Seeing it was HE on the phone and there was no reason to call me, I knew before I answered that the news wasn't going to be good.

"Uh... Hi... um, guess who ran out of gas?" 

I admit, I was so less than gracious about his need to be rescued. I have only run out of gas once in my life and of course my husband was who I called. And of course he came to my rescue. It's what he does. I, on the other hand, was in the middle of a really really good mystery! I was still in my P.J.'s for heaven's sake! I hadn't even  brushed my teeth, or my hair! But I sucked it up and said I'd be there soon. 

Of course this meant pulling on clothes-- what I sleep in is barely fit for hubby's eyes, let alone the public. Fashion Police be damned, as long as it's keeping me warm!  But I traded my fleecy piling jammies for something a little classier; sweatpants! I found the gas can in the garden shed as he'd promised, and was on my way. 

Once the two of us were back at home I warmed up soup for lunch and then he left to put in some extra hours at work. The work project is in the home stretch and the pickup list endless. He's spending every waking minute on the job, including now, weekends. I, on the other hand, returned to my chair and my book. 

Forty five minutes later, with a satisfied sigh I closed my book and stretched. My cat, who'd been curled up on my lap looked at me with disdain. How dare I infringe on his comfortability. I ignored his cold stare and decided action was in order. Whether I wanted to or not, I needed to move. My walking this week has been sparse due to the unforgiving cold snap we're in. I knew I needed to make up for it while the sun was shining today. 

It took every ounce of energy to force myself out the door but once I was headed down the street, it was good. I made my trek, a little shorter than usual, giving myself some slack since it was Saturday. Because I am a little O.C.D. when it comes to numbers, I like my distance to end with either a mile or a half mile mark. Finding myself a wee bit short of making a perfect 2 miles, I forged around the back of the house and found myself gazing up at the neighbor's ever growing Pussy Willow tree. I saw buds just barely bursting out on the branches and it made me smile. Pussy Willows have special significance in my parents love story-- I'll save that for another day-- but seeing the soft gray buds made my heart sing just a little. Harbingers of Spring is what they are. Crocus's do it for some folks, and daffodils and tulips, certainly announce spring, but it's the pussy willow that says it for me. 

I ended up putting a little branch of it on my front door. A dry pussy willow branch will keep indefinitely. 

The rest of my day went by uneventfully. I showered and dressed and sat at the desk doing things I don't particularly like to do, especially on a Saturday, but I argued that  if my sweetie has to work, then I guess I can do a little work too. To celebrate the task of balancing the check book against the bank statements, and paying bills, I popped the cork on a nice bottle of Riesling. 

I have had a near perfect Saturday despite that rude interruption . I have pussy willows in my Welcome Bucket and the company of a blazing fire, a purring cat and a smooth glass of wine. And another book calls my name. 

Let It Be Now

She holds in her hand a check for $100. Made out to her. One hundred dollars is not a fortune but it is more money than she has had access to in all her 12 years of married life. She was surprised when she opened the mailbox and found the letter addressed to her. Stunned when she ripped open the envelope and the check slipped out. The accompanying note simple said "Thank you for blessing us with your music." and she'd flushed as she thought about last weekend and the anniversary party for the older couple from church. Twenty five years was an accomplishment and she'd been shocked with the wife had called and asked if she would sing at their open house celebration. She liked singing, was able to carry a tune and not cause harm to anyone's eardrums but she never thought of herself as a singer. Still, she had enjoyed the moment of fame as she sang to the Wilsons and their room full of guests. Had flushed with pleasure as they politely and some, even enthusiastically, applauded when she'd finished her song. It wasn't till they were in the car driving home that Jim attacking her with his words, had methodically destroyed any pleasure she'd taken in her performance.

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She sighs and lays the check on the table. Brushes her hair back from her face and stares hard out the window. Jim is outside with the children. She needs to get dinner started but she can't bring herself to move. She picks the check up again and allows herself a brief moment to think about what she would do with $100 if  allowed. Because she knows that once Jim learns about the money he'll be taking the check to the bank to cash it and use for his own selfish purposes. She contemplates tucking the check away and destroying the note and envelope. Jim doesn't need to know about the money, does he? Could she keep it hidden, a secret, a little insurance for a "some day"?

Her heart pounds in her chest at the thought of keeping a secret  from her husband. She hasn't been able to do that sort of thing very successfully. Jim has an uncanny way of ferreting information from her. She bows her head in a moment of frustration and shame as she recalls some of the thoughts and feelings he's gotten her to share with him over the years, only to turn around and use it against her when she least expects it.

She knows it is wrong when Jim hits her but the subtle ways he abuses through the twisting of words is often harder to recognize. Manipulation seems to be something Jim excels at and she never seems to be strong enough or smart enough to combat it.

Defeated from her thoughts she lays the check back on the table and makes herself walk away. Jim will come in, see the check, demand answers and then will calmly put the check in his wallet and tomorrow they'll go to the bank, cash the check and that will be that. She'll never see the money, never experience the joy of spending something she's been gifted. It will just be one more way in which Jim reigns in their relationship and she shrinks once again.

As she pulls out pans from the cupboard the memory of a trip to town without Jim's permission rises up inside her. She'd impulsively decided to run to the store and pick up a few things to make a special dessert one afternoon but Jim had come home early. Of all days to come home unexpectedly, he'd come the one time she'd dared to go somewhere without his approval. Adrenalin pumps furiously as she recalls his seething anger when he met her in the driveway upon her return. She cringes as she remembers his face so close to hers, yelling, accusing, blaming. Her stomach turns as she remembers him throwing the sack of groceries to the ground and stomping on it, she flinches as her memory brings back the pain of the blows to her side and head as he drug her into the house. Punished for daring to do something on her own. For thinking she was clever.

That fear, that crippling fear is what makes her leave the check on the table. Let Jim decide to do with it as he sees fit. She knows she doesn't have the strength or courage to defy him or his wants and needs. Too many times of being beaten down over the years, experiencing that shrinking feeling when he wins has left her wrung out, helpless. Every time Jim succeeds in the wielding of power, she diminishes more. Some day she imagines she will just disappear altogether and a small part of her thinks this might be a relief. To not care anymore might be safer.

But as she watches her husband of 12 years walking towards the house, the children scrambling to try and keep up, something flickers inside her. Something akin to hope and that puzzles her.  She watches in bewilderment as their 10 year old son trips his younger sister in an effort to make it to his daddy's side before her. Watches how Jim chuckles as he realizes what the boy has done. With her heart in her throat she watches their 7 year old daughter fighting back tears as she struggles to her feet. Continues to watch as Jim picks her up and plunks her on his shoulders. Her heart aches for she knows-- Jim knows!-- her daughter dislikes heights and she watches her little girls face struggle with emotions. Jim has offered no comfort for the fall she's taken, now he's effectively robbed her of the decision to walk on her own.

She is thunderstruck then with the realization of how Jim isn't just controlling her life but also the lives of their children. Teaching them values she's never intended her children to learn. The abuse Jim dishes out on her is one thing but she sees clearly for perhaps the first time what he is also instilling in their kids.

It frightens her. Chills her. She knows what Jim's doing is wrong. Wrong and needs to be stopped. She feels powerless as she always does in the face of Jim's control.

And yet.

She walks back to the table where the check lays. What could she possibly do with just $100? Would it put gas in the tank and propel her down the road to freedom perhaps? Wouldn't  it at least get her as far as a shelter for women and children? She thinks about what she has done to 'earn' this monetary gift and shudders. The sense of empowerment is so foreign it overwhelms her. Does she have the courage to take charge of her life and make changes? The strength?

She stares at the check, hardly breathing, knowing her moments are limited. Fingers crawling nervously on the table,fresh fear bringing a binding pain across her chest. It's now or never. Watching surreptitiously through the window, she snatches up the check,  tucking it into the waist band of her jeans and gathers the envelope and note. Can she really do this? 

It is only $100 but it is more money than she'd ever had access to in the 12 years of marriage. It's now or never had been her thought. And with determination that she's forgotten she possesses she tells herself let it be now.