FICTION:

Be careful what you wish for. 

We have all heard this adage and wondered what the point really is. Just, only wish for good things or be careful to only wish for things, that if they come true won’t cause any harm, they won’t kill anyone or maim them for life, is that what it means? Does it mean that even if you know that what you wish for is wrong, then you should somehow stop yourself? There are a few directions that you can go with this. She chose the direction of opposite; she simply didn’t care. She wished him dead and gone. She didn’t want a divorce, she didn’t want the hurts and the dirt and the petty indiscretions brought to the table with lawyers on either side, she didn’t care that he cheated or why, just that he did and it was over. Now he needed to die. How many times she stood at the top of the hill they lived on in the countryside and watched him mow on that bloody tractor; slowly, laboriously, the same every time, the pattern never changing, no deviation from the way he’d always done it. She would watch and imagine him rolling over and over, getting crushed under the size and weight of it, maybe even have his legs sliced off before the safety on the blades ceased their continued spinning. She could see herself waiting to go in and call nine one one, making sure he was dead, no chance for survival. She would take a shower, do her hair and makeup nicely, ready for whomever might show up to save the day. She would have been in the shower when it happened she could say, explaining her delightful yet understated appearance. She would dry her hair and use the curling iron. She’d wear the beige cashmere and the black pencil skirt; she looked good in that, expected, classy. Maybe even add pearls, the ones he bought her for their anniversary. When the ambulance came she would be composed, stoic yet clearly devastated. No police officer could later testify that her reaction was not appropriate to the occasion. Her tears would flow but there would be no embarrassing lines of snot and coughing and general unattractiveness. She would be quoted as having said something like “I just can’t believe it, he was always so careful, whatever could have happened?”

Of course the tractor didn’t roll and he came in as he always did. He would spend exactly two hours out there, come in smelling of diesel fuel and take a shower then complain. Again. How dare he choose to be unpredictable and creative with some one else? She was younger but not much, she was heavier, not as well educated and yet he found her more appealing, exciting, new, different. “Is that all? Just different, not better, not more adventurous?” she had asked, was she willing to to do things she wasn’t? And why could he not have simply asked her to do any of these things, it’s not as if he wasn’t controlling in so many other subtle little ways, checking the calendar when he came home from a trip, silently asking if she had completed her daily to dos. Recriminating glances at Lowes that intimated she was blocking an aisle, not even giving her credit for the capacity to steer a cart without his expert direction. God that infuriated her. She never said a word. For fourteen years she simply wished he would die. She would be at the hospital, by his side until death was declared and would look attractively up into the eyes of a recently widowed doctor who would remember her, and look for her on Facebook after a tasteful period of time. For the funeral, she knew exactly what she would wear, the music she would play, something classical and understated and no hymns, that would annoy his mother, adding to her delight in the funeral arrangements. There would be large expensive pots of gaudy flowers which, were he still alive he would hate, and they would make him sneeze. She would wear a pant suit, again something very expensive and then she’d give it away afterwards. She would have readings from obscure poets that no one would ever have heard of and quotes from foreign writers in the programme which she would spell that way.

For years she envisaged the line of mourners and her sad, ironic smile as she shook their hands, each of them offering short memories and platitudes. And afterwards she would be the talk of the town, how dignified she had been, how great was their marriage, what a tragic ending to such an exemplary couple. Of course in the vision, she would not show up and wail in a barrage of imploring beatitudes. There would be no noisy shuffling her out of the church, no swearing of the mother in law “How fucking dare she show her whore’s face here at this time.” There would not be her son, begging her loud enough for all to hear, to just get out and leave the family in peace. But all that did happen, all the messy public dragnet of filth for the whole world to see, captured and then emptied into the church at his service. For just as she had wished, one spring without warning, he went into the garage to put the mower deck on the tractor, after removing the snow blower, and the thing fell on him and killed him. Instantly. And by God she had been in the bath, but instead of getting dressed she had dialed nine one one instantly and met the paramedics in a dirty bathrobe with egg stains on the front and a splatter of coffee down the side. They came into the house and there was a pile of dishes in the sink as well as two days worth of breakfast cooking pans on the stove, egg-dried and spatulas glued thereto. The laundry room door was ajar and visible to all, a huge pile of unmet needs in the form of sheets and towels, some with the stains of her monthlies visible, awaiting their neglectful mistress. She was forced to throw on sweatpants and rush to the hospital with what was clearly now…his body, to do what, she had no idea, but it wouldn't go well with cashmere and a pencil skirt. 

In the harsh light of the ER she noticed that her socks didn’t match and remembered that her phone needed to be charged. Useless. She couldn’t call the right people to go into her house and clean up quickly to prevent further mortification, she couldn’t call her best friend with whom she had shared all the fantasies of the perfect accidental death to cover for her, bring her make up or a hairbrush. Instead she spent four hours with handsome strangers some even eligible, leaving a lasting impression of sloth and dishevelment. There were no questions asked about how she discovered her husband lying dead under this tractor, the UPS man had found him and banged on the door until she came downstairs, swearing unflinchingly at whom she assumed was her beloved, he who must have locked himself out of the house. There was no need for an autopsy, just a great deal of paperwork and decisions to make. Where would she like to have the body taken and by whom. How the hell would she know this? That had not been a part of the fantasy, why didn’t they ask her about the poetry reading and the music? She took a taxi home where the shower was at last taken and a clean bathrobe found, her best friend arrived and shamed her into cleaning the kitchen, none if this was in the fantasy. 

The debacle of the funeral and the public indignity of it all remained with her for weeks, unlike the fantasy, the only call she received was from the funeral home who had yet to be paid. The life insurance was less than the fantasy too, and the sale of the house she loved, but could no longer afford, was hampered by a weak market, a bad attitude and the need for a great deal of improvement, according to the unenthusiastic realtor who promised to get her out of there in six to nine months. The bills came, she paid them. The job she had did not change, neither did her friends, they just stopped calling and her weekends and nights were a plethora of empty hours filled with her own remorse. The damn grass grew at an alarming rate and she now had to pay someone to come and mow it. She also had to buy a new tractor.