by Ana Revellado Martín
August that year had sneaked inside the house disguised as a storm. A massive, wild Sunday morning storm. Mrs. Jones was annoyed. She was going to have to postpone her garden party. Everyone in the neighborhood knew her for her parties, and she couldn’t have been any prouder. Once a month, she would wear her brand-new flower dress and she would invite all of her best friends and worst enemies to stuff them with lemonade, mango punch, tiny sandwiches impaled by tiny parasols, deviled eggs, fancy goat cheese on fancy fig concoctions, and rose-shaped vegetables. Mrs. Jones knew how important it was to be able to throw a perfect party, and after Janet’s fourth of July success, with her red wine fountains, her white-themed appetizers, and her skin-tight little blue dress, she couldn’t afford to be outdone in August too. She lived for her parties. Nothing else made her feel alive. She made a mental note to remember to invite her therapist, and got up. Mrs. Jones loved to tell her friends that she suffered from “an acute case of meteopathy”, a case so extraordinary that the doctors considered her a medical marvel: no matter the ongoing meteorological phenomenon, she was ready to suffer whenever the situation required it. After calmly swallowing a number of pills, aligned and ordered for shape and color in her medicine cabinet, she moistened a millimetric towel and lied down on the striped pink sofa, the eyes covered by the stamp-sized napkin, the right arm limply abandoned on the floor: ready to force her husband out of bed with her agonizing cries.Mr. Jones was a broker in an insurance company, and he was good at his job, probably the best, “a big fish”, as his colleagues said. He loved three things: the olives in his martinis, the smell of gasoline in the morning, and the fine lines on the back of his secretary’s tights. God, he loved those lines. When he woke up, he didn’t need to look out of the window to know that his wife was staging her death downstairs. Again. Year after year, he had learned to recognize the different inflections of her laments, based on what was needed: attention, a haircut, holidays on the island, a compliment on the new shoes he hadn’t noticed the night before. This was a classic case of weather tantrum. They were the worst. He took a deep breath, ready for a day of insults and complaints, when the whine turned into a scream. The basement. Yes, the basement was flooded. And this meant that he was going to spend the day alone, on his knees, wringing one rag after the other. Alone. It was going to be a nice day.
So, the morning began: the portable radio resting on the carpeted basement stairs, mumbling some cheap jazz, the wife knocked out on the sofa, an entire lake on the floor, slowly sinking its teeth in the old wood of the horrid furniture that his omnipresent mother-in-law had gifted them over the years. Mr. Jones breathed in the smell of mold with a satisfied smile, and set to work. One wring after the other. One, two three, four. One, two, three, four. He soon enough began to feel the pleasant languid feeling of manual labor. He couldn’t understand the protests of the working class: they had so much time to think, so little things to worry about. Ungrateful, lucky men, that’s what they were. One, two, three, four. Sometimes he missed his kids, they never called now that they were in college. One, two, three, four. He was running out of breath, maybe it was time to put his gym membership to good use. One, two, three, four. The phone was ringing. Nevermind, his wife was going to get it. One, two, three, four. He was starting to feel cold, really cold. Weird. Maybe living with that lunatic of a woman all those years had made him crazy too. Must have been osmosis or something. One, two, three, four. It was finally time to buy a new car. He was going to pick a color tomorrow. Maybe red. Red seemed powerful enough. One, two, three… He was starting to sweat, he felt greasy, his shirt was starting to stick to his back. One, two… His neck was itchy, what was wrong with him today? One…
Mrs. Jones answered the phone, already knowing what to expect. It was her. It was always her. Stupid enough to call every Sunday at the same time, right after church, as if she didn’t see enough of him at work. Such a goose. With her stupid voice and her stupid excuses and her stupid laugh. She hung up. What was she supposed to do? It was a matter of appearance. Appearance was everything. Appearance was all she had. The radio downstairs was still screaming those annoying songs, careless about her atrocious headache. She went downstairs to see how the situation was proceeding. Her husband wasn’t there. The floor was dry, the wet rags crammed in a corner, the family heirlooms safe. Just a fish in the middle of the room, bouncing desperately in search for water, suffocating. It happened sometimes, when the rivers flooded, she used to find it rather funny. Mrs. Jones grabbed the fish by its tail and looked at it intensely. He looked back.
Monday was the perfect day for a garden party, Mrs. Jones thought while observing her wonderfully dressed guests, with their hands full of delicacies. The sun was shining again, the roses had blossomed overnight, and she was completely, utterly content. Everything was perfect, and everyone was going to talk about it for weeks. At least until the next party. She had to begin to plan for September. Maybe an exotic theme? What about Japan? But for now, Mrs. Jones was happy. Everyone seemed to be excited about her husband’s sudden work trip, and she considered herself the most admirable woman in the entire world. And when Janet pointed at her with a quiche and asked with non-convincing nonchalance: “What is this, tuna?” Mrs. Jones smiled, shook her head and whispered “It’s a secret recipe.”