Aahh...married bliss!

          “Brian? Will you please take out the trash before you go fishing? This is the third time I’ve asked you today!” Vicky Novak yelled after her husband.

            “I will if you quit nagging at me, for cripes sake!” Brian Novak hollered over his shoulder.

            It was a good thing Vicky was in the kitchen or she would have seen the vicious snarl that accompanied Brian’s retort. He was fed up with her asking him to do chores on the weekend! All he wanted to do was spend a few hours fishing off the dock in the backyard. Couldn’t she get that through her thick head? You’d think after fifty years of married blistering arguments, she’d get a clue!

            “And I need you to go to the store before dinner, too!” she called in her annoying, high-pitched tone.

            “Why can’t you do it?” he wondered aloud, striding into the kitchen. He carefully guarded the temper that was near ready to bubble out the top of his head to scald her. “I go fishing every Saturday,” he reminded her with a wrinkled fist on his hip. “You know that.”

            “If I go to the store,” she began, wagging her finger at him.

            He hated it when she did that. He had a sudden urge to grab her extended digit and slam it down on the counter beneath his thin hand. The butcher knife cradled in its wooden block would be helpful from there!

            He’d lost track of what she was saying. “What?” he queried crankily, attempting to focus on her pudgy, rattling-on mouth.

            “I said...if I go to the store – who will clean the bathroom, do the laundry, and make dessert?”

            Now she was tapping her damn slipper-clad foot impatiently, waiting for his response. He hated it when she did that, too!

            “Okay,” he agreed, caving with a crushed spirit. “I’ll take out the trash, and then I’ll go to the store. I assume you have a list ready?”

            “It’s on the table,” she answered curtly while wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You know, Brian, everything is a damn argument with you. You have your fun every weekend, without fail. When do I get to have fun?” She didn’t give him a chance to respond, even though he’d opened his mouth to do so. “I’ll tell you when. Never! That’s when. It must be great to never shoulder the responsibility around here. Just relax by the dock while I cook the damn meals, baby-sit our grandchildren, and take care of the house!”

            “I said I’d go to the store, didn’t I? Why are you carrying on like this?” Brian said, swishing the air with his hand. He charged the trash bucket and ripped off the cover. He tied the red straps angrily, and then he yanked the bag out of the trash bucket.

            Vicky smacked him on the butt with a new trash bag and told him, “Here! And don’t forget to squeeze the air out of the bag so it fits more garbage. I had to redo it last time because it ballooned!”

            “Will you stop already?” he muttered with a sigh.

He was sick to death of Vicky. She’d changed so much since they’d gotten married. She used to be as sweet as a bowl of strawberry shortcake. These days she acted like she had PMS every minute of the damn day!

Brian craned his neck to peek over his shoulder at her. She was washing dishes by hand. Why on earth she was doing that when they had a dishwasher was beyond his understanding.

Her figure wasn’t exactly what it used to be, either. Her butt was much rounder and her waist, once tiny, was thick with lumps. He could remember the days when he’d chase those buns around the kitchen, just for the opportunity to pinch them!

“And another thing,” she started, swinging around to begin a second speech. She caught him staring at her butt. She clicked her tongue and told him, “Don’t bother looking because I have no intention of letting an old grouch like you touch. Plus, I have too much to do today.”

“As if I’d want to,” he grumbled, putting the cover back on the trash bucket.

“You may as well make your fishing time useful. Catch some fish for dinner tomorrow night,” she said with her hands on her hips.

She was tapping her damn foot again! Where has the love gone? Why do I hate her so much? Why does she have to tap her foot like that? Am I seventy-two years old, or am I a child in need of a scolding? “You betcha’,” he said aloud.

He threw the trash bag over his shoulder and palmed the grocery list from the table. He stuffed the list in his baggy jeans pocket and grabbed his keys from the counter. Then he pushed the door open and slammed it shut behind him.

“Easy with the door! Are you trying to break it?” Vicky bellowed from inside while glaring out the window at him.

“Aahh,” he scoffed with a wave of his hand. “Old bag,” he mumbled with another sigh. Why in the hell had he ever married that bitch, anyway?

***

            Brian kicked open the door and thrust the grocery bags on the counter. Vicky shuffled into the kitchen just as he was closing the door.

            “Do you have to make such a ruckus?” she demanded to know, once again striking a hands-on-the-hips pose.

            “I most certainly do,” he sassed her moodily. “Do you have to nag me all the time?”

            “I wouldn’t have to if you would do things right around here,” she commented, inspecting the items in the bag.

            “I love you, too,” he said in a tone that implied he meant just the opposite.

            “You can go fishing now,” she told him matter-of-factly.

            “Thanks, Mom,” he shot back sarcastically.

            Brian left the kitchen before Vicky thought of another chore for him to do. He went straight to the garage, where he collected his fishing pole and tackle box. He was trying his best to shake off the mood Vicky had put him in. He could feel the wrinkles in his forehead clenching with tension, so he knew it wasn’t working.

            He set his tackle box down at the end of the dock. He leaned his pole against the lawn chair, which was a permanent fixture on the dock during this time of year. Then he bent to look through his tackle box for his favorite jitterbug.

            He found it right off, but he stuck his finger with the damn treble hook. Perfect, he thought with frustration. Now he could feel his shoulders tightening with tension.

            He didn’t bother to wipe the blood off the hook. He sucked at his finger for a few seconds, and then he tied the jitterbug on his line. He cast out quickly; it was an angry gesture, accompanied by a glowering expression and a groan for his arthritic shoulder.

            He pulled up his baggy jeans, which hung on his skinny frame. Sometimes when he was drunk, Vicky said he looked like a Basset Hound; drooping clothes and bloodshot eyes. Too bad she wasn’t a Basset Hound. He could give her to the Humane Society!

            The tug on his line nearly pulled him out of his chair! “What in the hell?” he exclaimed, jumping out of his seat.

            He let out the line after he set the hook. He wanted whatever had taken the lure to run a bit so it wouldn’t snap his line. He kneeled at the end of the dock, throwing up a hand to block out the glare of the sun on the water. He wished like hell he’d thought to wear his fishing cap! Damn! He’d need both hands to bring in this lunker!

            A fin broke the surface about five feet away! Brian sat back on his heels from the shock of it. Imagine that! A shark in these parts? What the hell was a shark doing in New Hampshire waters? And the word lunker wasn’t quite going to cover it, either!

            “Vicky!” he shouted, hoping to hell she could hear him. He waved an arm in the direction of the house and hollered her name again.

            The shark was even closer to the dock now. He could tell it was a Tiger shark by the markings on its body. Too bad it wasn’t a Great White! He’d love to see one of those suckers in person some day!

            “Vicky! For cripes sake, get your ass out here!” he yelled, hoping the shark wouldn’t snap his line before she could see it.

            He heard the door open but he didn’t dare take his eyes off his catch. Vicky waddled over to him and screeched, in that damn high-pitched tone of hers, “This better be good, you old fart!” Her gray curls were bobbing just above her shoulders because she was doing that head wagging thing of hers, too.

            “Look!” he told her, pointing at the water.

            “You brought me out here to look at some damn fish?” she asked bitterly, turning on her heel. “You mad old bastard!”

            “Come here, for cripes sake!” he insisted, finally reeling in his line.

            The shark was angrily stalking the dock as if the dock itself was to blame for its new wound. It was thrashing in the water and bumping against the dock every few seconds. He still couldn’t believe his eyes!

            Vicky swung around and charged Brian, screaming, “You like those damn fish so much, you can sleep with them for now on!” Then she pushed him!

            He looked like he was attempting to fly; his arms flailed out and flapped as he fought to keep his balance. When he realized that he was going over, he grasped Vicky’s arm and pulled her with him. They fell together, splashing side by side.

            Brian came up for air first. As soon as he saw Vicky breach the surface, he pushed her head underwater, sputtering, “You batty old bitch!”

            He released her when he remembered they weren’t alone in the water. He hooked his arms under her armpits, but it was too late. She came up yelling! He hauled her closer, scooping her up in his arms. She was spitting blood and her blue eyes were bugged wide with horror.

            “Oh God!” he cried, trying to get a hold on the dock while dragging her with him.

            Something as coarse as sandpaper rubbed against his leg, startling him into losing his hold on Vicky! He dove for her but he came face to face with the shark, instead. It had Vicky in its jaws! The shark’s jaws were the tongs and she was the cooked spaghetti, hanging limply on both sides of that gigantic clamp!

            The shark bumped Brian as if he was obsolete, nudging him aside. As it swam by, Brian gazed into the wide black eye which stared back blankly. Brian was a minute away from drowning; both in the water and from despair. And that damn black eye could care less! The eye wasn’t even expressive enough to warn him that he could be next. If ever Brian wondered about the definition of void – here it was, in the eye of this cold-blooded, murdering shark!

            Brian swam for the surface as soon as the shark was out of sight. He felt his body rising but it seemed to take forever. He finally broke the surface and swam for the dock. By the time he lifted his weight out of the water, he was exhausted. He sprawled out on his belly, not giving a shit that his baggy jeans were lost.

***

            It was nighttime when Brian woke. He pushed up to his knees, feeling disoriented when he felt a warm breeze rake over his body. It came back to him in flashes. Vicky was dead; killed by a shark!

            He got to his feet and scuffled toward the house, wondering what happened to his jeans. Maybe he’d find them floating in the water when the sun came up. He hoped he wouldn’t find Vicky floating beside them!

            He had to call the police. He knew that much. He didn’t have to tell them about their argument, did he? He wouldn’t have to tell them about how he’d dunked her under the water, would he? He sure as hell didn’t have to tell them that he’d known about the shark!

            He dialed the police as he gazed unceremoniously around the kitchen. Vicky would never bustle through here again, nagging at him about this or that with her hands on her ample hips. She would never get the chance to tap her damn slipper on these floors again. She wouldn’t be wagging her finger at him anytime soon, either. And she certainly couldn’t use that high-pitched tone on him ever again!

            He hung up the phone. The corners of his mouth curled upward, and he laughed – maybe for the first time in months! Brian whooped and danced a jig, even though he was bone-tired. He danced and danced, laughing as if he’d lost his mind instead of his jeans.

            A bout of guilt hit him mid-jig. It hit hard; just as hard as Vicky had hit him over the head with a frying pan one time. He felt dizzy and nauseous. He was seeing spots where spots didn’t exist. Pain was creeping up his left arm.

            He grasped the phone in his right hand but collapsed before he could dial.

Damn her! She still gets the last word! How do you like that? She’s swallowed by a shark, and I get swallowed by guilt!

The End

Copyright 2007 - Sheila Roy