Trophy Wife
by Karen Shibuya

The late summer sun stretched tawny fingers through the streaked glass window, turning the air to molten gold. The fingers of fire crept, searching, across the dining table and threw rainbows against the whitewashed ceiling. Dust motes danced lazily in the still air as the day drew to a close.

The quiet soothed Suzanne's nerves as she moved through it, away from the shadowed living room and into the brighter kitchen. She touched her fingers lightly to her cheek and winced slightly when she grazed tender flesh. Resigned, she washed the scarlet streaks from her fingertips, then picked up a red-checked dish towel from the scarred Formica counter. Opening the freezer door, she frowned, remembering…

What the fuck is this? You expecting the Titanic?

She wrapped the towel around several ice cubes and placed the bundle against her bruised face, her other hand unconsciously resting on the burgeoning swell of her stomach. She shuffled slightly, both from the worn Birkenstocks...

Why ya gotta wear those friggin' hippie shoes?

...and her injuries, as she moved to the other side of the small kitchen. Kicking off her sandals, she took down the chipped stoneware...

Where the fuck is my dinner? Jesus Christ, Suze, can't you do anything right?

...from the cabinet and placed two settings carefully on the table.

The sun slid behind the mountains. The oppressive heat of the afternoon grew urgent as day fought to retain its strongarm hold on the foothills. The molten rays showered Suzanne in iridescence. Ribbons of copper glistened through her blonde locks, bringing back the faint memory of youthful beauty now leeched away. With delicate caresses, the sun smoothed out her worry lines and temporarily eliminated the battered look to her faded blue-jean eyes. Anyone looking at her could see the girl she used to be, illuminated in that deceptive stream of sunlight; anyone could see, but no one was looking.

Careful of her damaged fingers, she cautiously placed the mismatched glassware on the scarred dinner table…

You break another one; I'll break your teeth, y'hear me?

...so as not to chip them further. She was so clumsy lately, especially since the accident. She frowned. She hadn't meant to spill those chemicals in Dan's workroom. It had been a mistake, an error caused by her ever-growing girth and the vestiges of phantom pain. She shook her head in confusion, smoothing the front of her green sundress. Dan was a good man in most ways. He made a good salary, gave her a decent home. She looked around the rough-hewn log cabin--miles from the nearest neighbor--thoughtfully. If she wished for friends, some sort of human companionship, that was just her pathetic neediness again. If she missed her mother and her sister, well...

Lookit this fuckin' phone bill! Do you think I work for Ma Bell?

...she could always write them while Dan was hunting. If she was bored, she should take up a hobby. Dan was right.

Don't you forget it, bitch.

Dan was always right.

Scarlet blossoms against the bleached bone of the canvas. . .

Trouble was, Dan expressed disapproval at everything in which she took an interest. She'd attempted to join a local book club ...

Fucking cunts with their goddamn degrees.

' ...but Dan didn't like her driving after dark. She'd considered becoming a Big Sister...

No fucking white trash or colored brats in my house, around my wife.

...but Dan thought she should save her energies for a child of their own.

Wrenching . . . separated, yet joined . . . curving . . . scarlet flesh livid against the white steel of the knife.

Yes, she thought to herself as she moved the stuffed duck, forever frozen in mid-flight, off of the dining table, the only acceptable hobbies were Dan's hobbies. She'd tried them, too. She was a good shot with a rifle. She'd gutted and mounted the six-point buck she'd brought down…

That goddamned thing ain't goin' up in my house.

...and had even mastered the crossbow, which she preferred to the thunderous belch of the gun. Her pride in her abilities was dwarfed, however...

Jesus H. Christ, quit the goddamn bawling. I'll give you something to cry about...

...by her sheer distaste for the sport. That, and Dan's competitiveness. But he was her husband: to love, honor and obey, until death parted them.

Shadows crept in on the path worn down by the intruding light. Dan would be home soon, and dinner wasn't even started. She gazed critically at the set table, noticed waterspots on one of the glasses. Worrying her lower lip, she picked the glass up to replace it, knowing Dan would notice the imperfection.

As she padded toward the kitchen her gaze came to rest on their wedding photo. She stared, dispassionately, at a younger, happier Suzanne, who beamed back at her from the scratched glass. She remembered the Dan she'd fallen in love with...

Hey, Suzie-Q. Wanna getta soda?

...before the jealousy and paranoia, the drinking and the pseudo-illnesses had set in. She remembered the football games and proms of their adolescence. She felt the warmth of his embrace as they drifted on the dance floor. His cologne, coupled with the sheer masculine scent of him, enveloped her again, taking her back. She conjured up the feelings, now ghosts of the past...

Forever, babe. You're mine. Forever. ...the sheer rightness of it all.

Furtive gropings in backseats . . . no, Dan, no . . . the intrusion . . . the aftermath . . .

Her eyes flew open suddenly. Her grip on the glass loosened; it fell to the scuffed hardwood floor and shattered, shards showering her bare feet. She was oblivious to these smaller pains, however, as another, internal, agony ripped through her. She clutched her abdomen, moaning softly beneath her breath.

"It's all right, it's all right," she crooned as she held her stomach and rocked back and forth. "It's all right, little baby."

Severing . . . ripped from the warm security . . . liquid eyes mirroring blackness . . . milk and blood. . . .

...but it wasn't all right. She fell to her knees against the onslaught of the agony, against the broken shards. But the pain was minor compared to the ripping pain in her abdomen. She had tried so hard...

I'll fucking kill you and that bastard fuck you're knocked up with.

...to carry the small life to term this time. No, Dan. . . . No . . .

The porcelain doll with tiny patent-leather shoes… the spun white gold of its hair . . .tiny lace gloves that covered hands as small as a child's . . . fine lines spider-webbing its face . . . chips missing, ground too finely by booted heels.

"Hang on, baby, hang on," she whispered as she clutched her stomach and closed her eyes. She opened them again to see the deer's head above the fireplace regarding her with a curiously detached stare. "Hang on, little one. Momma's gonna make everything all right. . . ."

Excited yipping turned to banshee keenings of pain . . . tiny burlap bag sinking below the water's surface . . . stilled from view by tears and fist . . . explosion . . . white pain . . . blinding agony.

Her gaze fell on the easy chair, Dan's chair. "Oh! I didn't hear you come ho--"

Where the fuck's my dinner?

Her voice ended in a moan as another wave of pain clenched its fist inside her. "Hon, I need help . . . ooohhh . . . Dan?" Plaintive.

She grabbed his shoulder, the other hand clutching her belly. He gazed back at her with marbled eyes.

Ohgodohgodohgod. . . .

The beating . . . the spilt chemicals. . .

ohgodohgodohgod. . . .

The sleek brown hide and gentle eyes of the deer . . . the chalky underbelly splayed open, rubied glistening in the red-gold light . . . the tiny, lifeless form on the taxidermy table. . .

ohgodohgodohgod. . . .

In shock, she gazed upon the still form of her husband, his glassy eyes like a deer in the headlights, and she realized here, too...

Jesus fuckin' Christ, Suze, can't you do anything right?

She'd mastered his hobby better than he had. She crawled painfully, tearfully, to the phone and began to dial.

Karen Shibuya has lived in upstate New York, Colorado, Australia and now calls Hawaii home. She shares her life with her true love and her naughty-spawn cats. In various guises, she's a writer, a book reviewer, an Internet addict, a movie maven, a child of the night, and She Who Must be Obeyed.