LatinosUSA

Abby stood at the ironing board, where she spent much of what might otherwise have been her free time. She was starving. Her husband had put her on a strict diet years before, fearful that either of them might gain a pound. No cakes, pies, strudels, cobblers, and on and on. He, unlike her, seemed content with the plainest of foods. Simple food and that darn car that he sweated blood over. 

She was almost at her breaking point this time. “Can I have my nervous breakdown?” asked Abby again. “I think I’m ready for it now,” she added. It was after 4 p.m., and this had been going on for most of the afternoon. At the ironing board, she nervously fingered the cord of the steam iron. “Everyone has a breaking point,» she said. “I had my first breakdown just before we were married, remember, Sweetheart?”

Maynard stared disconsolately at his wife. They’d been through all this before, he thought with annoyance. She got this way every time she ironed his socks, and he was tired of it. Next, she’d want Oreos. Or Fig Newtons. He had more important things to do, like waxing his car. “Sure,” he said. “Go ahead.”

Abby blinked at him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said go ahead,” Maynard said again. “Have your nervous breakdown. But make it a good one,” he said. “You know: shattered glass, broken furniture. Put your fist through the television screen, why don’t you?”

Abby said nothing in return but spun on her heel and marched rapidly across the living room to the front door of their apartment, where she swiftly let herself out, slamming the door on her way. A strangled cry followed her down the hall.

Maynard chuckled a little sadistically. He called her bluff, and Abby, his wife of seventeen years, had crumpled like a cheap umbrella. As he knew she would. Now maybe she would check out of her never-ending pity party and fix supper, he thought to himself.

Six o’clock—the dinner hour—came and went, and Maynard was forced to prepare his own supper. He had not done this in eighteen years, ever since he had begun dating Abby, and he didn’t like it one bit. He stooped low and rummaged through the meat hamper for a pickle loaf. Maynard insisted that they have a pickle loaf every other night, and this was the other night. What the devil had gotten into that woman to make her run off without feeding him? He concentrated on making his sandwich.

“Lessee,» he muttered, arranging slices of cold cuts over squares of white bread. That looks right,” he remarked aloud. “Now,” he went on, “what else does Abby put on the bread?” He frowned, concentrating. Finally settling on American cheese, he was foiled again and again when the individually wrapped slices refused to open. Struggling, he stretched the still-wrapped slice of cheese out of shape, then angrily cast the misshapen slices into the trash can. “Cheese is bad for my cholesterol anyway,” he muttered crankily.

Maynard fell asleep in his easy chair, his half-eaten pickle loaf sandwich still clutched in his fat little fingers, atop the TV table. He jerked awake with a start. Whew! he thought, that was an awful nightmare! He’d dreamed he had to get a job, and that a bird had dropped doo doo on his car. Wheel of Fortune blared loudly from the flat-screen television. He muted the sound and then looked around for his wife. She still wasn’t there.

“What if she really has gone off the deep end?” he murmured. “What if she actually hurt herself?” That would be catastrophic, he thought, but it would serve him right! He’d have to iron his own socks then. He glanced up at the wall clock: eleven thirty. Maybe he should call someone? The police? The hospitals?

Suddenly, the landline jangled off the hook. Maynard felt an icy streak rush up his arm as he grabbed the receiver. “Hullo?”

“Maynard, this is Eloise,” said an excited voice over the line. Eloise was Abby’s sister. She worked at Memorial in the emergency room.

“Yes?” he said cautiously.

“Maynard, there’s been an accident. Abby was driving, and she got T-boned on the driver’s side in your Oldsmobile. She….”

Maynard was screaming, “No, no, no!”

“Get a hold of yourself, Maynard, your wi…”

“Not my ’68 Cutlass 442! Please, Eloise, tell me it isn’t so. I can’t bear to lose that car!”

“Get a grip, Maynard. Abby is alright. It’s a miracle, but…”

“Who?” asked the man, with little apparent interest. The line went dead on Maynard’s end. Eloise hung up.

When Abby arrived by taxi early the next morning, Maynard was sitting in the same recliner, staring blankly at the television screen. The Happy Morning News was on, but the sound was muted. Abby spoke her husband’s name several times, but got no response. She crept up beside him, put two fingers on his neck, the way she’d seen doctors do it on TV, and, satisfied he was still breathing, she murmured thoughtfully, “This may open up a whole new vista in our evolving relationship, Maynard.”

A month later, Abby emerged from the kitchen, carrying a huge, three-tiered white cake she had just finished icing. She paused and licked vanilla icing off her fingers. Now that Maynard allowed her treats, this was her favorite dessert. In the background, the tantalizing aroma of Chateaubriand wafted through the apartment. For the first time in nearly two decades, Abby got serious about cooking. In the past thirty days, Abby put on twenty pounds, and a little bulge protruded from her once flat stomach. She never felt so free! She smiled, something she once did very little of. She addressed Maynard, who was standing across the room. “Would you like a little piece of cake, Sweetheart?” she asked gaily.

“Yes, thank you, dear,” said Maynard, looking up from the ironing board. “I’ll eat it as soon as I finish pressing your socks.”