Melancholy Wife

The alcohol rocked in the sharply angled glass as I lifted my homemade martini to

my lips. I sighed for the umpteenth time and stared at the muted images playing on the

television screen a few feet away - Leave it to Beaver reruns. It was my favorite show,

but it made me sick to hear the laughter, so I turned off the sound and let myself melt into

the black and white pictures.

When a commercial came on for the infamous Clap-on, I took my gaze on a tour

of the room. The impeccably decorated living room, purchased all at once from that fancy

home furnishing store downtown, detailed with expensive shades of brown and burgundy,

engulfed me with its emptiness. Even the heavy, wooden pieces werent enough to fill up

the ominous space of the oversize room. There was a menacing, hollow feeling in the air;

it seemed contagious, as though the more I breathed it in, the more hollow I became as

well.

Even worse than the thickly vacant ambiance was the looming evidence sitting in

the attic and in my head. Evidence of the dishonesty I refused to face. The ruins of a

relationship were now buried under possessions and trinkets bought with his money; the

wealth he used to hide his lies. At the thought of the monstrous contents of the box Id

just placed upstairs, I gulped down the rest of my drink.

My white Persian cat, Richelieu, purred beneath my hand on the sofa. In my best

Audrey Hepburn imitation, I said to him, The mind does reel.

Richelieu responded by blinking and swishing his tail. Yeah, Im pissed off too,

I said. The picture that Id gotten from that detective flashed through my mind. He was in

the photo. His hand, wedding ring still on, rested on the lowest part of a brunettes back.
In another picture his hand was behind her neck, pulling her face towards his. With

disgust I stood from the sofa and went to pour another drink.

While I mixed and poured, Richelieu swished his tail a few times and meowed at

me.

Nonsense, Richelieu, I said to him, shaking my head. Even if he did try, I

wouldnt take him back. After I resumed my place on the sofa, I pulled the cat into my

lap, grateful at least to have him to cuddle.

On the television Mrs. Cleaver was answering the door, dressed customarily in

pearls, to a painter. It reminded me of the previous morning, when Id answered my own

front door, clad in paint-splattered coveralls. Joe, my husband, was out of town for a

meeting. Wanting to surprise him, I turned one of the smaller guest bedrooms into an

office, so he could work from home. I was finishing the walls, painting them a light green

(his favorite color) when the lawyer knocked on my door.

Gabriele Bowen? Hed inquired.

Why yes, I am. I answered cheerfully, transferring my paintbrush to the other

hand so I wouldnt get paint on the large envelope he handed me.

Im very sorry, hed told me sincerely, before walking back to his car.

That was how I found out about the divorce. Id seen the other woman first, in the

pictures, and now I was holding the annulment papers in my hand. Fury overwhelmed me

as I now knew it wasnt business that kept my husband in Chicago for the weekend it

was her. It was the other woman he was with and from the timing of the divorce papers I

knew he was never, ever coming back to me.

 Compelled by denial, I threw the pictures and the envelope into a box. Out of

sight, out of mind, right? I shut it away and sealed it forever in the attic, where I wouldnt

have to face it. At least for now.

It became clear in an instant that life was not like an old fashioned sitcom. The

real world had style and vibrancy. Problems were hidden behind colorful shades of

deception. Id read once that Mrs. Cleaver wore her pearls to cover a scar on her neck. As

I sipped my half empty martini, I wondered what I would have to wear to cover my own.

My Leave it to Beaver episode was ending, a cheesy resolution where

everything turns out okay just because the Beaver said he was sorry and learned a lesson.

As the family laughed and hugged and the credits began rolling, my surroundings began

to transform. I watched as the rich hues of my neatly furnished living room faded into

black and white, and the TV world absorbed my own.