Frances Metzman

Christmas in August

Frances Metzman, 2025

As Nancy moved around the room making last minute preparations, she exuded a fluttery nervousness. Her short leather skirt clutched her shapely thighs, making each step shorter than usual. She had the sensation several phones rang simultaneously, and she couldn’t decide which one to answer first. If she didn’t calm down, Curtis would know he’d unnerved her. They both knew her body language had always been an open window to her interior landscape. She glanced around the room, trying to ignore the Christmas tree in the corner. She hoped Curtis wouldn’t comment on the fact she was still celebrating Christmas in August. And how shocking that Curtis showed up like this out of the blue. She had taken him off her list years ago, a sure sign their breakup was final. Curtis had left Chicago seven years ago, and she’d not heard a word from him for four years. Now he claimed he’d applied for a job in the city, and came in from California for the interview. This morning he’d called to say he wanted to come over and visit.

When she first met him ten years ago, she’d just turned twenty-six, and her enchantment with him loomed larger than the twelve-foot tall figures on billboards. He took up all of her breathing space, and she depended on him to dole out oxygen for her sustenance. And when the oxygen was in short supply and she was about to expire, he’d give her just enough air to survive. All the cruel witticisms she’d planned to heap on him at the first opportunity evaporated when she heard his voice. She didn’t hesitate to invite the love terminator up for a drink. She should have simply refused. Why didn’t she? Hiking her skirt to the top of her thigh, she knelt to open the liquor cabinet. She pulled out a bottle of Glenlivit Scotch, his favorite, and untouched since he left. So many times she tried to throw it out only to return the container to the same exact space. She brushed the bottle with her fingers, raising a small cloud of dust, and chided herself for keeping it so long.

After Curtis walked out, he left a void that filtered into every aspect of her life. She couldn’t sleep, her work slipped, and she juggled a multitude of minor physical ailments that could be blamed on plain old depression.

For a year and a half she felt her hold on sanity was barely more than a slim thread. On late evening walks, she found herself peering into windows wishing those happier looking strangers would take her in and comfort her. Movements made too swiftly terrified her, like she balanced on the edge of a cliff and had to walk perfectly erect and in a straight line. Just when the unrelenting loneliness threatened to swallow her, she’d found Tom. He’d saved her, and it wasn’t a rebound. She truly loved the man, the kindest person she’d ever met.

Tom is a meat and potatoes guy while Curtis loved fine cooking. Sometimes Curtis had cooked for her, his favorite meal being feta stuffed veal chop with rosemary. Nancy recalled that she always bought the food, and that hadn’t bothered her at all. Curtis seasoned and cooked like a top chef. Nancy set out the caviar and crackers with chopped onions on the side.  She chided herself because her intent was just to say a quick hello and have him leave as soon as possible. If that was the case, she asked herself, why had she opened a jar of the Beluga caviar he loved so much?

The doorbell rang. Nancy checked her watch and saw that Curtis was late as usual. Tom was never late. She glanced at a photo of Tom, a sweet-faced, forty-year old balding man. Her eyes shifted to the door and for a moment she had the feeling she was committing adultery. She considered not answering until he went away. When she opened the door, he lifted her up and spun around.

“Put me down,” she said, laughing in spite of herself.

“It’s my Nancy girl,” he whooped. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground, his lips brushing her cheek. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. She didn’t know if her vertigo was the result of his presence or the twirling. Struggling for a nonchalant smile, her lips felt like they were made of plastic. Curtis scrutinized her approvingly with those cool, green eyes. “You still look totally delicious,” he said in his deep baritone voice. “Haven’t changed a bit.”

 For the first time since she’d known Curtis, she experienced a tiny jolt of power. The best revenge for the lover that dumped her, she thought, was to look good.

They stood in the foyer as she tried to get her dizzying thoughts under control.  His languorous handsome face showed signs of the malice of time. His olive skin that had once had a wonderful dewy feel now looked dry and leathery. Deeply tanned, tiny white lines radiated from the corners of his eyes where the ridges were too deep for the sun to reach. He still had the kind of sultry, poetic face you see on book jacket covers, the kind that incites women to have sexual fantasies.

“And Hollywood?” She noticed his scruffy cowboy boots.

“I’ll tell you all about it. Are you going to invite me in?”

She closed the door and put her hands behind her back so he wouldn’t see them trembling. Images of walking on Michigan Avenue with Curtis, hand in hand, burned the backs of her eyes. She told herself that he was a has-been, forty-three-year old actor who couldn’t shine Tom’s shoes. Curtis stood in the middle of the room, his fists jammed into his pockets. He stared at the Christmas tree in the corner. “Seeing the tree makes me think nothing has changed. It’s like time stood still for us.”

“Everything has changed,” she said louder than she expected to. “Drink?” She walked quickly to the bar and put ice cubes into two glasses, suddenly needing a drink herself. As she poured, she watched the cubes melt a bit, rearrange themselves and tinkle pleasantly. Sucked into a whirlpool of their history, she stared at Tom’s picture to anchor herself. She loved Tom. Tom was stable, caring and supportive. She had been out-of-her mind crazy about Curtis, the most creative, funniest person she’d ever met. Ever. But the man was all glitz. She handed him his glass and watched as he inhaled, then sipped the golden liquid in the voluptuous way she remembered. Her heart yanked, and she wanted to touch his full, bruised looking mouth. She curled her toes inside her shoes.

“Glenlivit? You remembered my favorite drink. You can’t still be angry with me.” He swiveled the glass and looked around. “How come you still celebrate Christmas in August, just like we always did?”

“I don’t do it for you or the memory of you. I like doing it for myself.” She almost said for Tom, too. But the words did not leave her tongue and she didn’t know why. They both stared at the large potted pine tree that consumed almost an entire corner of the small living room. It had grown since Curtis had bought it as a sapling. The sodden pine smell blanketed the air, seeping into every corner. When she had told Tom about the celebrating Christmas in the summer, he loved the idea although she didn’t tell him it originated with Curtis. Her stomach churned as she realized she had not removed several ornaments on the tree that Curtis had given to her. He had trash picked them; a porcelain figurine, a broken lead horse and at the top, a plastic figure of Jesus with an arm broken off. She felt exposed, like the weird dreams of finding herself naked on the street. Curtis pointed to the Jesus figure.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Nancy said. “Some ornaments were worth keeping. They remind me that I survived
trash day. You know, the day you left me without so much as a goodbye.” His eyes narrowed. “My leaving seems to have agreed with you.” He smiled and looked at the photo of Tom.

“Boyfriend?”

“Yes. A great guy and not terrified of the “C” word. We’re getting married in six months.”

“Does he know I’m visiting you?”

“Why wouldn’t I tell him?” She could tell by Curtis’ expression he knew she manipulated the words to make his visit sound innocent. Her knees turned rubbery. She didn’t tell Tom the truth because she feared her voice might have revealed too much feeling. Plopping on the sofa, she averted looking at his big grin. He sat beside her, very close. The aroma of his musky cologne enveloped her. She gulped her drink then turned to him. “Did you ever get married?”

“No. I made it clear that wasn’t my style from the day we met.” He took a long swallow. “But that was then.” He gave her a familiar stare with a raised eyebrow. That look usually preceded a dramatic announcement. It was as though he tried to gauge her response in advance, like raising a wet finger to judge the direction of the wind. Those comments fell into two categories – half-real for effect or imagined. But they could be whoppers like the time he announced he got a starring role in a Broadway show. He was only a walk-on.

Now she sensed he wanted to backfill the void of the last four years to make it firm enough to walk across. It set her even more on edge and she began babbling about her graphic design job and how she’d been made director of the department. When a hole appeared in her monologue, she plugged it with giggles. The calmer he appeared, the faster she talked. She felt feverish. Suddenly, he pulled her to him and brushed his mouth over her cheek. His lips trailed to her mouth and she tasted the Glenlivit on his mouth. She felt like she’d returned to a warm place after being stuck in a snow storm.

“Where’s the champagne?” he whispered. “Remember how we drank champagne when we made love?” Nancy didn’t pull away as she remembered how Curtis dribbled champagne over her breasts then ran his tongue on the trail of the bubbly liquid — sweat and champagne, the trademark of their lovemaking.

“I’m scared to death,” he whispered. She’d never heard him admit to being afraid of anything. She pushed back. “Why?”

“I’ve changed a lot and you probably won’t believe me.” She didn’t want to hear this. If they made love, she’d never forgive herself. How could she face Tom? She had to ask Curtis to leave. He stood and walked to the window, staring at the panorama of apartment buildings. “I’ve missed you so much. You’ll never know.”

“Really? Why didn’t I hear from you all this time?”

“I wanted to be an actor above everything else, and you couldn’t take a back seat.”  

“You never even gave me the opportunity to decide? I was always the caboose of a long freight train in your life, and I stayed with you through it all. I was even happy when you went out with your drinking buddies. It seems you never noticed.”

She searched his back like a street map that would guide her now. He gave a forlorn shrug. “That’s over. I’m ready for us and a nine-to-five.”

“Curtis, don’t you think I’ve changed, too?

“I can handle that.” He turned to face her. The look of sincerity stunned her. “I’m not asking you to.”

 “Listen, babe. I know you still have feelings for me. And, as for me, I’m still crazy about you. I’m just asking you to give us a chance.” She wanted to touch his sad face. This image of a subdued Curtis was new to her. In the old days, he’d been a twanging taut wire, hardly able to sit still for a minute. “You waltz back into my life as though you’d just returned from a stroll in the park. It’s like you’re apologizing for being late for dinner.”

“It took me a long time to grow up. I know that you’re the only one for me. I really understand now what you were trying to tell me.”

“I’ve got a new life.”

“It’s not the same as us. We can pick up from where we left off. We’re both different now.” He touched her hair. “You told me many times we were like magic. It’s still true.”

“I love Tom.” Her voice was small.

“Not like you loved me.” Curtis hit a chord in her. “Tom takes care of me. He’s reliable.”

“It was the kid in me that you always loved. We had sizzle.” He held his arms out. “But now you see before you a responsible man. But I kept the fun kid parts in me intact.” She kept her eyes on his boots covered in beige and pink dust and wondered where he’d wandered to accumulate the scratches and discolorations. So many times she’d agonized about where he might be and who he was with. If she looked at him too long she’d be lost.

“How about I bring my things in? I got a couple of suitcases in my van.” Nancy wanted to tell him no, but her tongue froze. “I’ll have to pick up Chuckie, but that will only take an hour. He’s with my sister.”

“You still have that mutt we found?” Curtis raised an eyebrow. “Uh, no. It’s my son, Chuckie.” He smiled crookedly. “I always did like that name.”

“Back it up. What son?”

“I had this casual affair and the woman got pregnant and wanted to have the kid. When she was killed in a motorcycle accident, I inherited the little guy.” Nancy laughed harshly, thinking her expression had to be as contorted as she felt.

“What’s so funny?”

“You named your son after a dog?”

“It’s the name you gave the pooch.” He looked away. “That’s how I always kept you in my sights, babe.”

 She didn’t want to believe him. “Where is he now?”

“You know about the life of an actor. My sister’s been raising him but she doesn’t want to anymore. If I don’t get settled, I’ll have to put the boy in a foster home.” He cocked his head. “You always wanted kids, and Chuckie doesn’t take up much space or eat a lot.” Nothing has changed she thought. Lean on Curtis and like confetti he drifts lightly through the air. “The amount he eats is not the problem, Curtis. Sooner or later, you desert everything important in your life. If you can’t dump poor Chuckie on me, you’re willing to give him to strangers. Where is the new Curtis? You hardly seem like father material let alone going into a committed relationship.”

 “Hey, I’m trying my best to raise my kid and get back together with you. And all you do is criticize me.”

“You’re always the victim.” Something inside her gut went from liquid to steel. She could look him in the eye now and not melt. “So, after you move in here with Chuckie, what if you don’t find a job? You’re only qualified for acting.”

“Hey, there are plenty of acting jobs in Chicago. I did handy work when I got hard up.”

“And what if things don’t work out here for you? Back to California without Chuckie? I can see you’d dump the poor kid on me.”

“Hey, don’t be like that. I’d never do that.” He waved his hand at the tree. “This place is filled with my ghost. Don’t tell me you don’t love me.”

“It ended when you left. I didn’t know it until today. Thanks for stopping by.” She walked over to a closet and took out a large cardboard box and a small ladder. Climbing the ladder, she removed all the ornaments from the tree, and neatly placed them in the box. Next, she put the bottle of Scotch on top and handed it to him. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Maybe my sister can use these.” He hoisted the box onto his shoulder and saluted her with a snap as he turned and walked out. It was as though Curtis had left a bookmark before the last chapter of a thrilling book when he left, and now she had read the disturbing conclusion. The book was closed, and she had a sense of peace. She picked up the telephone and dialed. When Tom said hello she gasped, “Thank God you’re there. How soon can you get here? And can you bring your tree ornaments over? I just threw mine out. I don’t like them anymore.”

“I’ll be there ten minutes ago,” Tom said, his voice soothing her. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to say that.” His statement startled her. He knew. In that moment she realized that the man she intended to marry was remarkable. “I’ve been waiting a long time, too,” she said, her voice strong.

Dinner With The Mob

Frances Metzman, 2019

when I received the Invitation to Grace’s dinner party, I was warned by my husband, Martin, to watch what I said. l am Known tor verbal tactlessness when it comes to criminality which is one or my major pet peeves. Whenever I come head-to-head with white collar fraud I tend to go off-the-charts about it. White collar crime, to me, is not a victimless crime. It hurts everyone – those who got ripped off and the general population that pays higher prices, costlier fees and increased insurance rates to make up for the theft. There was no getting out of going. All of the attendees were Martin’s life insurance clients. Lately, we a seen a lot of our Friends and neighbors Involved In perpetrating scams – doctors, lawyers and businessmen that were carted or to all tor various Illegal maneuvers. It seems Inconceivable that l know so many people who nave gotten in trouble with the law. I grew up in a poor neighborhood where we had respect for all professionals, even the real estate broker held a place of high esteem.

Some of the people that had turned crooked didn’t surprise me. Jake, my husband’s good friend, had me doing a double take. I still reeled from the news. He always seemed so kind and philanthropic, but had recently been indicted on Federal racketeering charges. It included theft, mail-fraud and RICO, the law that ensnared the Mafia. He admitted to Martin he was as good as convicted because they had all the evidence. He’d been in the cross-hairs of the FBI for a long time. After pleading guilty, he would be sentenced and then head off to what he hoped would be a minimum security prison. He was being given a send-off at Grace’s party. How wonderful.

I finally figured out why they all wanted life insurance once it was known that they all had big amounts of ill-gotten cash socked away in numbered accounts on off-shore islands. In the event that they died and the IRS wanted to attach property for unpaid taxes the beneficiaries could argue that they were left no money or property. They only had the policy benefits on which to live and maintain their old life-style. Of course, they always had access to those hidden accounts.

One notable reason for the party was a welcome home for Mark, Grace’s husband. Mark, a lawyer who had just completed a three-year sentence at Allenwood Minimum Security Prison, went away because of a high-profile auto accident Insurance scam. He was also disbarred. In addition, Jake was getting the royal treatment for -” don’t know what. Did they think it was sad he got caught? I found it to be our justice system working the way it should. The embossed invite had been quite upbeat – like, let’s give our terrific friends our very best wishes. Not my wishes, thank you. Martin and I dressed in regulation style, dressy-casual. The outfit I wore was studied nonchalance and expensive – It was reserved for parties given by Martin’s wealthy clients, many of whom now wore numbers in their mug shots. la learned to make my outward appearance fit in to the group’s expectations while my mind took off to another sphere. There were no shared values with those people. Not that my values were terrific. I like money, but was proud my husband got it the honest way by hard work.

Besides, I wasn’t the most popular person among my suburbanites – far from it. I didn’t like the cookie-cutter life demanded in the suburbs. Everyone was expected to behave in a certain, prescribed way and talk about their most recent luxury acquisitions. My most valuable recent purchase was for some great sable brushes for oil painting, but no one was interested. My art work took me to off-beat realms and gatherings where one had the chance to expand their worlds and vision through interesting conversations. Martin knew I had difficulties finding common threads with the people we would meet up with tonight. Whenever I said something I thought was funny, Martin would be the only one laughing. But I played the part of the suburban wife as best I could. My husband’s career was dominated by these people

We arrived for dinner at Grace and Mark’s mini-mansion on an acre of land in a posh suburban location. It wasn’t exactly a huge MacMansion but came close. It was nestled in a luxurious lush garden that surrounded the house and in the back a rolling hill was covered with thick-bladed, carpet-like grass. Inside, the expensive chrome and leather furniture was off-set by antique reproductions. The home decorations could only be summed up as lavish, expensive, designer eclectic style that rearranged could be found in other Macmansions. In the large foyer with the curved grand staircase stood a dictionary stand, holding a Who’s Who in America opened to the page with the Mark’s biography, published just before he went off. Mark and Jake were
golfing buddies. I noticed the two men, one out of prison and one just going in, huddled in a corner engrossed in an animated conversation. They had a lot in common beside golf.

About a dozen people showed up for cocktails, some women were dressed to the teeth and decked out with all their jewels.
I had two glasses of chardonnay and felt tipsy by the time we were called to the dinner table. They seated Jake next to me and Martin sat across from me. I noticed my husband’s lips quivering slightly. I knew he was nervous about me opening my big mouth so I gave him an assuring wink and a plastic smile. I could tell he was not convinced about my promise to behave. Neither was I…

Myra’s Garden

Frances Metzman, 2018

Myra usually gardened in the early morning hours before the white heat of the day erupted, but today she stayed out until the blazing afternoon sun was overhead. Kneeling on a knee-pad in her backyard, sweat dripped off her forehead and down her temples. one stabbed the ground with a spade as though expecting resistance, but it sunk into the soft earth to her knuckles.
Glancing at her next-door neighbor’s house, she noticed Bruce’s downstairs curtains were open, but he hadn’t picked up the newspaper. As soon as he came out, she’d catch his attention before he went back In. with a cloth she wiped the spade,
applied a tissue to her damp face and put on lipstick. Today she planned to unmask the alluring side of herself, the part that had long been buried beneath the image of the benevolent, unmarried, next-door-neighbor for all these years. Lately, Bruce was more receptive. He’d given her subtle signals like leaving thank you notes whenever she babysat, Johnny, his six-year old. She saw that those notes had become progressively more Intimate, at first addressing her by name and then using dear friend. He’d even given her a box or chocolates the other day.

What could be more caring? He knew she adored candy.
 She’d loved Bruce from the moment he and his wife, Ellen moved next door twelve years ago. She sensed all along that Bruce loved her in return, but their passion remained unspoken – only felt. That honorable man would never betray his wife and neither would she. Now Ellen was gone tor a year. The poor woman had been terminal, dying slowly and painfully from cancer. And Myra had helped Ellen through her illness to the end with Bruce’s eternal appreciation. Yes, she knew Bruce loved her. Widening a hole in the ground, Myra noticed a large brown bug on her arm. She swatted it with her open palm, leaving a splatter of blood. Absently, she washed it off with the nearby garden hose.

Myra heard Bruce’s front door bang open in the vigorous way it did before his wife’s tragedy. He wore a white tank top and cut-off jeans. Waving as he headed toward her, he carried a box under his arm. He looked more robust and energetic than he had in a long time. She’d studied Bruce’s habits and understood him like she knew the personalities of every flower in her garden, like she knew her Belgian block walkway had two hundred and thirty stones. The time had come to act more assertively. Removing her canvas gloves she tugged at the shoulders of her new cotton dress that she’d nipped in the seams to subtly enhance the curve of her breasts, her small waist and hips. Bruce stepped through the open gate, a big grin on his face.

“Hi, Myra. I noticed you were out here. How are you?”

She smiled, patting her new blunt haircut in place. Lifting her hand delicately, she shaded her eyes and looked up at him, wondering what was in the box.

“I’m fine.”
“Nice dress. Hope you don’t mess it up with gardening.”
She blushed as she felt his eyes scan her. “This is my new special gardening dress.
“You need a hat against the sun.”
“Hi, Myra. I noticed you were out here. How are you?”

She smiled, patting her new blunt haircut in place. Lifting her hand delicately, she shaded her eyes and looked up at him, wondering what was in the box.

“I’m fine.”
“Nice dress. Hope you don’t mess it up with gardening.”
She blushed as she felt his eyes scan her. “This is my new special gardening dress.
“You need a hat against the sun.”

“I love the sun,”

Myra said, feeling a swell of nausea from the heat. With her bare hands she shoved a burlapped bush into the hole she’d dug. Dampness soaked the cotton material of Myra’s dress in a line down her spine. She yanked the burlap out from under the ball of earth and thrust dirt over the roots. Bruce looked over at his house.

“I left that kid or mine attacking the apple pie you baked for us. better get back before he gobbles it up and winds up with stomach ache.”

Taking a deep breath, Myra chided herself to be patient, to remember Bruce hadn’t courted in a long time. Still, the man had an appealing shyness. After all, he’d at least noticed the new dress. She clapped the dirt off her hands. He thrust the package at her.
“I got a little something for helping us out like you always do.”
She sucked in air, expanding her lungs until they felt ready to rupture. This awkward man with his full head of curly black hair and smooth round cheeks made him look so vulnerable, so young. He needed the stability of a woman ten years his senior. Once they were married they’d put their ages together and divide by two. Two equal parts.
The relentless heat banded her chest tightly. Sitting back on her heels, she dabbed a pristine white towel to her face then placed it on the mat, used side down.

“You didn’t have to. You gave me that nice toaster last year.”

His eyes glazed over.

“That was for your help with Ellen. I can never repay you for that, Myra.”

She loved the way her name rolled off his tongue, and the quick darkening of his eyes. Myra removed the wrapping paper slowly, holding on to the moment as long as she could. She recalled how after Ellen’s funeral, she’d devised her strategy of ingratiating herself by babysitting and cooking meals whenever Bruce worked late. He adored her pot roast and soups. He even once requested her specialty, chicken pot pie. Surely, the rare woman he brought to the house never did things like that. And none of them came around twice. she watched his house with her binoculars. Easing the ribbon off the box, Myra lifted the cover. Bruce shifted his weight from one leg to another. She hesitated.

Inside the box was a gleaming set of chrome gardening tools. They glinted in the sun. Expensive. Practical.Disappointing.

“Uh, do you like them?”
Suddenly, Bruce’s voice sounded as though it came from a closed jar.
“I could take them back and get something else.”
“No, I love them. Mine are shabby.”

She jabbed her new spade deep in the ground. She wondered what the practical gifts meant. A plea to care for him? He had no one else. That had to be it. What did it matter what Bruce bought? The act of giving her a gift showed his love.Lifting a trowel out of the box she caught her reflection. Her facial features, ears, nose, lips, eyes, and cheek proportions were nearly perfect despite some random wrinkles. Yet she disliked the symmetry of her face, now it receded into boring perfection. she pressed the tip or the tool with her finger. sharp. A pinpoint drop of blood oozed out…

Reunion

Frances Metzman, 2018

It had taken Toni two hours to put herself together for the reunion With caroline and Lana, two Women who had meant So much to her in the past. Until a week ago she hadn’t seen or heard from either one of them for sixteen years. At first, they had occasionally phoned then e-mailed, and after all communication stopped, they lost track of what everyone was up to.
studying herself in the mirror, Toni hoped she gave the appearance or success, confidence and a woman who had arrived. In the last year an urge to meet up with the old friends had become progressively stronger until Toni got their new e-mail addresses through old friends
and made the arrangements. They all decided to wait until they met to play catch-up. She wanted to show her mentors how far she had come from being an administrative assistant, a euphemism for secretary, at Scarducci, Adden and Drugers.

The law firm had hired her straight out of high school. Caroline and Lana
were newly graduated young lawyers at the same firm who, unlike Toni, had grown up privileged.
Although Caroline and Lana had treated her well, Toni felt that she didn’t measure up to them because she couldn’t afford to go to college. She always felt on the rim of their friendship. Despite having been invited to both of their homes on multiple occasions. In her perception, she never entered the inner circle on their lives. Looking back, she knew that feeling opaque in their presence was because of her own insecurities. Yet, undeniably, knowing them had been a life-changing experience. She could now present herself as a person of substance.
 Going through her entire wardrobe, it frustrated Toni to realize she was so trying to Impress the women – now pathetic. still, she had tried on five of her best suits, finally settling on a Valentino design that she a bought in a consignment shop.

The beauty of combing the exclusive Main Line consignment stores was that they provided hugely discounted, runway-quality clothing, discarded by the ultra-rich after wearing them once or twice. It seemed as though hardly any of the Main Liners had the word wasteful in their vocabulary. The better for me, Toni thought. 
She made, what she considered, an astronomical amount of money as an associate lawyer at a prestigious firm, Jackson and Haymour, that was located smack in the middle of Center City Philadelphia. Yet, she had never lost the fear of poverty that came from her deprived background. She only allowed a sliver of childhood memories to rise from time to time. Back when she worked at the Scarducci law firm she had never spoken of her roots, and no one had asked.
One last shake of her long, silky hair, a tug on the sleeve of her black short-jacket with chalk pin-stripes, a pat on the puffed-up collar of her cream silk blouse and she was good to go. The suit was perfect, and she approved of the effective dusting of make-up – thin purple eye liner, pale pink lipstick, and brushes of light magenta rouge on her mocha colored skin. As she often did, she felt grateful she’d inherited her Caucasian mother’s fine, softly waved hair that fell below her shoulders.

Years ago, her once beautiful mother had hair like that, but it had thinned, and she was beaten-down looking since her dad died six years ago. He had been ill for many years and unable to work. Toni missed him, and felt sad she visited her family so little because of long work hours. She promised herself to change that, but knew she probably wouldn’t. Her mother and sisters were proud of her, but what she missed most was the approval or the two friends, a goal that had haunted her over the years.
Toni walked out the front door of her west Philadelphia town house that was nestled in the protective shadow of the University of Pennsylvania where she had graduated from law school only four years ago. Originally, she had lived in the poorer side of the neighborhood, but recently moved to this more elegant and expensive location. She hailed a cab to take her to the Center City hot spot, La Bella.

As they passed a particularly rough, familiar ghetto neighborhood, Toni closed her eyes, trying to distance herself from her childhood memories. In no time, the scene changed as the taxi approached the exciting, twinkling lights of the city. She had become a part of this sophisticated world, understood the upscale restaurant menus, classical music and clever buzz words the professional set used. As Toni got closer to her destination, the apprehension of childhood feelings of inadequacy dropped
heavily on her. She chided herself to calm down. The two women never talked down to Toni. She did that to herself. If anything, they’d introduced her to a different lifestyle that probably propelled Toni into pursuing a law career. The only hard part of going on the partnership track at her firm was giving up marriage and children.

But that could still happen – maybe. As she entered La Bella, she thought that all she knew about her old friends was they had children and lived near each other. She wanted to know everything that had gone on in their lives and tell them all about hers even though she’d slipped into her e-mail message that she had gone to law school. The ornate room had thick, hunter green carpets, gilt wall panels and huge, glittering chandeliers that cloaked her in luxury. She shivered with delight and thought it impossible for her to ever become jaded to her new life. Looking around, she had no trouble spotting the two women at a table nearby. Toni inhaled as she approached quickly. A soft collective buzz of voices permeated the dense air. Toni noticed Caroline had thickened a bit and wore heavy makeup with a lipstick smear in a corner of her mouth. She still had the thin aquiline nose. Her jaw jutted out a bit more and her shoulders drooped. Lana looked lovely and hadn’t changed very much, but she appeared to have dressed in a big hurry. The buttons on her blouse were askew.

Both women looked older but then so did she…

The Invisible Wife

Frances Metzman, 2018

Living in the attic of her ex-husband’s home these past two months had been exhausting. Darlene had to be so careful not to be detected, not to leave the slightest clue, and she’d gotten really good at covering her tracks. With the evening festivities approaching, Darlene felt her spirits rise. Through the thin slatted dormer window she saw a pink streaked sky with a half disc of a setting sun on the horizon. Light in the attic dimmed, but she didn’t dare turn on the battery-powered lantern, fearing a beam of light could slip through the tiny openings between the splintery floor boards. Looking into a sliver of mirror hanging from a post. Darlene applied lipstick and fluffed her long, dark hair. She slipped on a red, silk dress. After all, she had to look good for the celebration. Justin and his wife, Lila, were having a dinner party for their first wedding anniversary. If everything went according to plan, this would be the first and last anniversary of Justin’s marriage to Lila. Nothing would stop Darlene from getting her husband back where he belonged – in her arms. He never really left her, only went temporarily insane. All would be forgiven. After all, many men go through a mid-life crisis, thinking a younger wife will make them happy. Justin was no exception. In time, most men realize their colossal mistake and wish they’d stayed with the first wife who really loved them for themselves and not for their wallet like Lila. Darlene had made it her mission to make Justin aware of Lila’s real persona.
The doorbell downstairs rang several times and Darlene heard footsteps below in the foyer.

The sun had gone down and now Darlene depended on the fragments of light seeping up from the dining room downstairs to illuminate her quarters. She located the bottle of wine and a stemmed glass. It was cocktail hour and she wanted to join in the party. She poured a glass of wine and finished it quickly. By eight o’clock everyone had entered the dining room, and Darlene could view a portion of the large oak table through a small peephole she’d cut in the ceiling beside the crystal chandelier. The
only other see- though she’d risked drilling in the ranch house attic floor was directly over the bed in the master bedroom, a tactic she considered ingenious. one only had to see what they ate, now they made love and the conversations around those activities to know what their lite was like. IT was the barometer that determined the degree of joy or misery in people’s lives. Darlene knew that once she investigated and evaluated their lifestyle, the outcome would prove that Justin and Lila were
miserable.

On all fours, Darlene peered through the hole and viewed the guests. She recalled how easily she’d moved into the attic. As an architect, she had designed the house. Before their divorce, Darlene had planned to convert the attic into an office. She’d built a ladder to the upper level of the garage and installed a door abutting the dormer. Foolishly, Justin had not changed the lock on the garage door nor reprogrammed the code that opened the overhead door although the house locks had been changed. Darlene smiled and poured another glass of wine. The man never did have a good sense of engineering, and could never figure out how the house was structured. Maybe he underestimated her brazenness that she could possibly move back into the house because she’d been such a pliant wife. She felt safe, knowing Justin’s allergies kept him out of dusty attics, and Lila was too much the princess to dirty herself. On weekends when the lovebirds were home from work, Darlene left the mildewed space by way
of the garage, climbing down the stairs to the concrete floor. She stayed at a cheap motel a mile away in a room hardly better than the attic that contained a small table, a chair and a sleeping bag. The motel room did have a narrow bed. That was all she needed until the day of victory when Justin came back to her. During the work week, Darlene stayed overnight, sometimes using a bucket when urgency overtook her. She kept her intake of liquids to a minimum, although tonight was different. It was a
celebration. Darlene poured a bit more wine into her glass. Most weekday mornings the lovebirds left for work by seven-thirty and that was her signal to use the downstairs facilities – shower, toilet even helping herself to some foods like cereal, an occasional egg or can of soup and a slice of bread. She was careful not to use too much food to avoid arousing suspicion.

She heard the tinkle of forks on plates and the beautiful ping of crystal wine glasses. Darlene placed the electronic listening device she’d purchased from a detective catalogue on the floor and turned up the volume. “These emerald earrings are to ale tor, Lila. what a great anniversary present, a woman next to Lila said, fingering the earrings delicately. The word die came out in a long, breathy sigh. Those earrings should de mine. Darlene hated everyone seated at the table. They’d been her friends
when she was married to Justin, the same people who promptly deserted her after the divorce. They kept Justin and welcomed Lila because Justin had all the money and gave lavish parties. They had made her feel invisible when they banned her from anything resembling her previous life, and then the idea came to her. She had decided to do cosmetic procedures with the money she’d gotten in the divorce settlement. Inhaling the aroma of rib roast as the maid passed the platter around Darlene’s
mouth watered.

It had been a long time since she’d had a home-cooked meal, maybe not since her divorce. How she’d love to cook for Justin – lasagna, pistachio encrusted salmon, lamb chops – the list was endless as she dreamed up new and better recipes. Now But she’d grown weary of a hideout diet of beef jerky, dried fruit and rationed liquids. Before sneaking into the attic, Darlene had tortured herself with wanting to know how the lovebirds lived; how they made love, what they ate, which side of the bed Justin slept on, and did they have simultaneous orgasms? Did Jason break wind in front of her or wash his pecker after sex like he had with Darlene? Being able to observe them didn’t totally satisfy her, but knowing she had the power to alter their lives did…