We met in March, a rare and unusual month for love. Granted, we were only five, but even then, thrown together in kindergarten by the hands of fate and administrative birth date-sorting, I knew it was meant to be. He handed me the purple fingerpaints and, though brief, our little hands touched.
That was all it took. From that moment on, my world revolved around Charlie.
I realize you must be thinking that all sounds absurd. I can’t blame you, honestly, because a connection like that is such a rare thing; I think we, as a society, have grown to devalue it. I mean, look at the divorce rates in this country alone. And globally! It’s a tragedy we’re all witnessing in real time, yet telling ourselves is normal. We coddle ourselves with fast food and reality television and performative politics, blind to the realization that we’re destroying the only thing that truly gives our lives meaning: love.
No matter. I didn’t come here to preach, I promise. Truthfully, I need help.
Despite the hours I’ve put into learning to become the perfect wife, perfect homemaker, and—eventually, I hope—the perfect mother, Charlie’s parents loathe me. Do they not understand how much time and effort I’ve devoted to their son over the years?
For God’s sake, I’ve taken cooking classes and read every Ladies’ Home Journal, scoured the library for out-of-print books on the art of folding shirts and scenting linens with lavender. Our home is spotless and the garden is overflowing with flowers and abundant vegetable patches. In fact, I think this might be the best year our strawberries have ever seen.
And then there’s the bedroom, not that his family has any reason to think about that (though I’m sure they do, busy-bodies that they are, forever sticking their unwanted noses into our business). They say Catholic girls are prudes, but I’ve done things for—and to—that man that eighteenth century French whores would find shocking.
Still, it’s never enough.
I think, if I’m being honest, it’s because it took Charlie a while to realize we were meant for one another. He certainly can’t be blamed for that, of course—after all, we were but children when we met, and though I nursed a crush all through our school years, Charlie required time to see what was right in front of him—but I do think it’s given his family a false impression of our love.
Or, maybe, and I do so hate to admit this as it’s rather painful, it’s that they still prefer the girl he was with before me. Joanne. Sweet, blonde, All-American Joanne, with her tinkling laugh and perfect teeth and endless array of Little House on the Prairie dresses.
She and Charlie began dating in our senior year of high school. I wasn’t overly pleased by this, but I understood Charlie had oats to sow and a world to explore before he could properly appreciate me. I focused on my school work and extracurriculars, and graciously tolerated their misguided courtship for three years—a remarkable feat, if I do say so myself—until, finally, in our Sophomore year of college, Charlie came to his senses.
Poor little Mouse-in-the-House Joanne had gone missing. Came home from a date with Charlie one night, threw his jacket over her shoulders, gave him a quick peck as a farewell, and then disappeared into the night, ostensibly to return to her dorm room, only to never be seen again.
Tragic. A lost little lamb.
Speaking of, I showed up on his doorstep the very next day with a freshly made lamb cassoulet, per the 1964 edition of Julia Child’s The French Chef, and sat with him in his worry and his grief. Such a good man, my Charlie, he was absolutely beside himself as campus security, and later the police, scoured the town looking for their Missing Girl.
They never found her, of course, such was the power of a chest freezer in my parents’ cement-lined basement, but she did add an excellent flavor to the cassoulet. After I’d butchered her, boiled off the foul, and ground her into a delightful mince, I’d mixed her with salt and fennel and sage, used her intestines as casing, and made a lovely sausage.
A mere two months after the police declared the case cold, Charlie asked me to dinner. Patience truly is a woman’s greatest virtue. The details of that I’ll keep to myself, because it was such a divine night—the culmination of everything I’d been dreaming of and working towards—and I do think every marriage benefits from a bit of privacy. Suffice to say, I knew from that moment we were in love. Marriage? Only a matter of time.
We dated for a few months, though he hesitated to introduce me to his parents. They had been so fond of Joanne, after all, he didn’t want to upset them by introducing them to someone new just yet. I confess this did irk, but I decided to let it go for the good of our relationship. And it was a fantastic relationship, truly it was, if only he hadn’t had such a Boy Scout’s heart.
One night, five months into our fairy tale romance, he dropped me off at my parents house. I dashed inside after a quick kiss goodbye, eager to wash the day off and get ready for bed. Apparently I’d lost an earring in his car, and while he could’ve simply waited until he next saw me to return it, he decided to enter my family home.
Looking back, he must’ve tried to ring the bell, but it was long disabled. And we never locked the door, because our neighborhood was so safe, so very quiet. All upper middle class families and retirees; the only crime ever committed was one of fashion or too much Botox. Which led to the unfortunate incident of him discovering Mummy and Daddy at the dining room table.
Don’t misunderstand, I loved my parents. They did everything they were supposed to; I was pampered, loved, sent to horse camp, fed a steady diet of home-cooked meals and black & whites from my mother’s favorite deli, they attended my graduation and paid for my education. They even gave me a car for my Sweet Sixteen. It’s just that they were so very intrusive, always on me to leave the neighbor’s yappy, irritating little dog alone (I did leave him alone, for what it’s worth, once he was sealed in a trash bag at the bottom of the neighbor’s pool), to tell them where my childhood best friend was buried, to leave Charlie’s girlfriend be. On and on and on.
One can only take so much, so in the end I slipped a teensy bit of drain cleaner into their meals over the course of a few months. That seemed to quiet them. I didn’t want them to think I was angry with them, however, so I cooked them a beautiful feast straight out of Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything, as recommended by Martha Stewart Magazine, helped them in donning their finest suit and frock, and propped them up at the dining room table, eternal, elegant dinner guests. I placed candles on the table and lit them, and kept them so every night since; ambiance is everything.
Anyway, it was an unfortunate turn of events that Charlie happened upon this—there was a reason I never invited him in—and even more unfortunate that he started bellowing before I had the chance to explain. I did the only thing I could think of to do, and grabbed the wrought iron sculpture my father so loved and kept on the stairwell landing, and bashed Charlie’s beautiful bronze head in with it. I was ever so regretful our first fight culminated with a touch of violence, but I suppose that’s the price one pays for passion.
Thankfully, all was forgiven later. I cleaned him up, sewed up his lovely skull, and dressed him in fresh clothing. I kissed his hands and made my apologies and, feeling brave—even willing to skirt tradition—I asked him right then and there to marry me. And you know what? He was so overjoyed, so awed with love, he never said a word! That was all the confirmation I needed. I borrowed my parents’ wedding rings, as I knew they’d be thrilled for us, and there, in my basement, amongst my vats of chloroform and formaldehyde, not to mention the remains of sweet Joanne (I had yet to turn the rest of her into a delicacy), we were married.
Our honeymoon was short but blissful; we spent hours cuddling, I cooked us beautiful meals, raved about my new life to dear Mummy, and lovingly wiped down my husband’s skin with the finest preservatives. Later, of course, I’d have to remove his organs and the wet bits that would ruin his lovely skin, but I figured that could come later.
We lived in wedded bliss for three years. I did feel bad for his parents; we didn’t feel it was right to share the news, not yet, so they of course reported him missing, as any loving parent would do. But, eventually, as was the case of Joanne, the case ran cold.
Or so I thought.
Just recently I’ve had his mother, sharp-eyed and shrill-voiced, show up at my door. At first she was reasonably pleasant, if not somewhat vibrating with an unpleasant energy. But after small talk and a simple round of questions (”have you seen my son?” “did you know him well?” “I thought perhaps he might be with you?” etc, etc) she moved on to rather more insidious accusations.
From what I’ve gleaned from her nonsensical rantings, Charlie’s old roommate thought he saw me “skulking about” (I rather resent the term, though that’s another matter for another day), and he and a few others had the audacity to suggest I might’ve harmed Charlie.
Can you believe it? As if I’d ever hurt the man I loved. Why, it’s the furthest thing from my mind! I’ve spent the past week renovating the old guest room; Charlie and I think it might be time to turn it into a nursery. Isn’t that exciting? A few houses down there’s simply the most precious little boy—he reminds me so much of Charlie, all that bronze hair! You could almost think they’re related—yet his parents don’t seem to appreciate him much. Charlie and I have discussed adopting the boy and raising him as our own in our perfect, warm home.
Surely that’s the happiest ending for everyone, no?
So, I did my best. I tried to explain all this to Charlie’s mother, but somehow, it seemed only to upset her more. She shrieked at me, something about calling the police, finding out what happened to her boy, throwing me in prison, ensuring I got the needle.
I don’t know, none of it makes sense, but it does strike a worry within me. I’ve read about this sort of thing; mother-in-laws who simply can’t let go of their precious sons. She might very well be trying to drive Charlie and I apart, and I can’t have that. There is, also, the fear that she might well be unhinged. What if she means Charlie and I harm?
I do have tools at my disposal—my basement’s well stocked in case of emergency—but I thought perhaps I’d turn to you for advice first. Any chance to resolve a familial conflict as peacefully as possible is, of course, the ideal.
I welcome any and all suggestions. And, if all else fails, I suppose the wood chipper may come in handy.