Photo by Daria Nepriakhina on Unsplash

 

GEORGE AND JILLIAN FOREVER

by Sarah Gribble

 

“That house on Mill Street finally sold.”

“Mmm.” My wife stirs the spaghetti sauce without really listening to me. She’s probably thinking about some big case she’s got going on. I don’t mind, really; a mail carrier doesn’t have much to entertain a lawyer. We’d never had much in common, anyway. Mina married me for my chiseled jawline and my flowing dark hair, figuring I’d make nice arm candy at firm functions. A Clooney look-alike, her friends say. I pretend to be flattered, but I’ve never seen the resemblance.

“U-Haul was there today. Guess I’ll have more than junk mail to shove in the box soon.”

“That’s nice, babe.”

The spaghetti’s done. She burns her hand as she drains it. I don’t help or ask if she’s okay.

♥♥♥

I’m reaching into my mailbag when I hear the screen door screech open. A woman—mid-thirties, curves that would make Marilyn Monroe jealous—emerges with a huge grin and a plate of cookies. I wave and wait for her to toddle down the front walk in her heels. She looks like a 50s housewife in that getup, dress and all. But her calves are nice; shapely, I think is the word.

“Hi! I just moved in and have been meaning to pop out here with these”—she thrusts the plate toward my face—“all week. Sorry I took so long.”

Oatmeal chocolate chip. They look gooey and delicious. Mina’s voice pops into my head. Putting on a little weight, aren’t you?

I pat my stomach and give the woman a small smile. “Thanks, but I’m watching my figure.”

Her eyes widen slightly as she looks me over. She giggles, a noise my wife never makes, but one that reminds me of my high school love, whose deepest level of conversation was a series of tittering noises.

“Now why on earth would you need to do that? Everyone knows you’re a fine specimen of a man.”

She winks and holds the plate out once more as I wonder who ‘everyone’ is.

“One won’t kill you.”

I look around slyly to see if anyone’s watching, and she giggles again. I’d forgotten how nice that noise can be. I take a cookie and thank her.

“You better watch out, you’ll have every woman on the block baking for me.”

It’s meant to be a joke, but the smile disappears and her eyes darken. “They better not.”

I don’t like the way she’s looking at me, all sharp and disapproving. But damn, that’s some nice cleavage she’s sporting.

Catching my wondering eye, she’s all smiles again and puffs out her chest a bit.

I swallow the rest of the cookie and clear my throat. “Well I’ve got to get going. The mail won’t deliver itself.”

She cocks her head to one side and a confused smile graces those pretty pink lips. “Of course.”

She continues to stare at me as I move to the house next door. I can’t help but grin. She’s a little weird, but it’s been a while since I’ve gotten the chance to flirt with a housewife.

♥♥♥

“I’m sorry to bother you, but could you come in and help me for a moment?”

Another dress, heels. Her honey hair is curled in perfect waves.

She sees my hesitation, waves a hand dismissively. “It’s just that I’m trying to move a hutch, and I can’t seem to budge it.” Laughing self-depreciatingly, she flexes an arm. I can’t help but notice that her dress tightens over her chest as she does so.

“Weak little me.”

“I really should be moving along—”

“It’s only a few inches. I promise. There might be a reward in it for you.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I see old Mrs. Wilson trimming her rose bushes. Her eyes are fixed on me, jaw dropped, sheers hovering mid-air. I hide a smirk. It wouldn’t hurt to give the old bat something to gossip about. I follow the woman inside.

Her house is as bright and cheery as she is: bouquets everywhere, pastel paints, dollhouse-like furniture. It all looks so fake, especially with her standing there like a Stepford wife. The redolent smell of flowers nearly suffocates me.

The hutch she wants me to move is near the entryway, just off the living room. The TV is on and paused on George Clooney’s face.

“That’s my favorite,” she says, indicating the TV. There’s an intense look about her as she looks at the paused picture.

I nod and force a smile. I have no idea what movie it is, but I don’t want to offend. “Mine too,” I say.

Her face lights up so much I swear it’s emitting its own glow. Her hand jerks slightly as if she wants to reach for me. I turn to the hutch. It’s small, can’t weigh more than fifty pounds. I move it with ease, back and forth a few times while she stands behind me giving instructions down to the inch.

When it’s finally in a satisfactory spot—one I swear is only an inch or two to the right of where it was originally—I move to the door. She catches my arm, gives my bicep a squeeze. Her voice is breathy as she says, “You don’t want to leave without your reward.”

My head is screaming at me to get out. I should never have come in to begin with. But my blood pressure has sped up at her touch and my feet seem rooted to the polished hardwood.

“I really am watching my weight,” I manage to say. “I shouldn’t have any more cookies.”

Her lips twitch and her eyes gleam with amusement. She turns and loops her arm through mine, turning my body slightly so that I’m facing the stairs.

I shut my eyes tight and take a deep breath, force Mina’s face into my thoughts.

I take the woman’s hand gently—God her skin is soft—and untangle my limb from hers.

“It was no trouble, no need for a reward. I really have to be going now.”

She pouts, but lets me leave. I look back when I reach the sidewalk. She’s staring from the screen door.

Mrs. Wilson waves me over and I stop to have a quick chat.

♥♥♥

I think of the woman while I’m fucking my wife later that night.

Mina lays under me like a dead fish. This Thursday ritual has gotten stale for both of us, but ever-persistent Mina insists on completing the task just the same. I guess I should be happy she manages to fit me into her schedule.

When I come, I realize I don’t even know the woman’s name.

♥♥♥

The first thing I do Friday morning is check for her mail. I flip through until I see something with her first name on it: Jillian. I like how it rolls off my tongue.

♥♥♥

Flashing lights outside Mrs. Wilson’s house.

“What’s going on?” I ask a nearby cop. He’s got a baby face and his eyes are full of excitement. He twitches slightly when I speak.

“Body found.”

“Not old Mrs. Wilson?” Poor old bat must’ve had a stroke.

He nods, looks around, then leans in close. “She was all cut up. Fileted like a fish.”

My stomach clenches. The rookie is summoned inside via radio. He flashes me a nervy grin before he hurries off.

I’m in a daze as I approach Jillian’s house. She—like every other person on the street—is standing on her porch watching the cops mill about. She hurries down to greet me.

“Just terrible, what happened,” I say.

Her brow furrows and she doesn’t answer.

“I mean,” I continue, “you probably didn’t know her, but she was a sweet old lady. Baked me banana bread every Christmas.”

She wrings her hands and her jaw clenches. “It’s as I figured.” Her eyes turn to the old woman’s house. “Does anyone else bake you anything?”

Now my brows come together. “I’m a mailman. People give me stuff all the time.”

Her eyes close. “I admire your dedication to your role, George.”

“What? My name is Kevin—”

“Shh. They’re bringing her out.”

The EMTs roll out the gurney. My stomach turns when I see the white sheet and the barely detectable lump underneath. I look away. Jillian’s eyes are wild, the corners of her mouth pulled back. She looks almost gleeful.

I mumble something noncommittal and hurry down the street, throwing mail in boxes haphazardly.

♥♥♥

Tuesday. It’s been two and a half weeks since they found Mrs. Wilson’s body. The news reports no leads.

I haven’t seen Jillian, and I’m grateful. I hope she’s gotten over whatever fascination she had with me. She isn’t the first lonely housewife to latch onto me—Mina says it’s the uniform—but she is definitely the creepiest.

After a couple beers with an old friend, I pull into my driveway. The days have gotten short and it’s already on the tail end of dusk. The house is dark. Mina’s car is in the garage, but she often carpools. I sigh as I fumble with my keys. Looks like another evening alone.

The house smells funny, like flowers but with a metallic undertone. When I click on the kitchen light, I see dozens of bouquets. Roses, tulips, every color, on every surface.

There’s a card on the island. I grin as I pick it up and read the words I’m sorry. The flowery script isn’t Mina’s normal chicken scratch. She must have gotten a secretary to write it for her. That fact should anger me, but I’m too happy at the gesture. Maybe she’ll finally want to try the marriage counseling I’d suggested over a year ago.

“Can you forgive me?”

The voice is soft, childlike, coming from behind me in the still-dark living room.

And it’s not Mina’s.

I turn slowly to see Jillian standing in the doorway. Her eyes are downturned, like a child that’s been scolded. In her hand is the butcher knife my wife keeps in the block next to the stove. Something is dripping off it, hitting the floor with little plunks. There are splatters of something on the front of Jillian’s dress—the same color as whatever is on the knife.

Spaghetti sauce. Must be. She’s come over to cook for me…

Something in the back of my mind is screaming, but I can’t put my finger on why. My thoughts are unfocused, as if I’m watching the scene through an old pane of warped glass.

“I upset you with what I did to that old woman,” Jillian says. She’s taken a step into the kitchen. “I see that now. I was just jealous. She watched you all the time, and then you said she baked for you…” She finally looks up; her eyes shine with tears. “At first I was mad when you didn’t check on me. Then I realized it was a test. A woman doesn’t get to be with George Clooney without proving herself first.”

“Geor—what the fuck are you talking about, Jillian?”

Her eyes brighten and she wipes the back of her hand across a cheek. The sauce smears. She comes closer.

“I love the way you say my name.”

Blood.

That’s blood.

Smiling, she shakes her head. “And then I come here and find an intruder in your home. Some stalker, no doubt.” Her face becomes a mask of contempt. “But I took care of her.”

Mina.

“What have you done with Mina?”

“Who’s Mina? The dog?” She whistles and bends down. “Come here, little Mina. Come, girl! Say hello to your new mommy.”

“Mina’s my wife you crazy bitch!”

I push her, sending her flying to the side. She hits the fridge with a thump. I barge into the living room, screaming my wife’s name. As soon as I cross the threshold, I slip and come down hard. My head cracks against the doorframe and a bright pain shoots through my brain. The light clicks on as I squeeze my palms to my temples and the edges of my vision go dark.

Jillian stands in the doorway, the knife still in her hand. She’s now brandishing it in front of her, ticking it back and forth in a no-no gesture.

“Now, George, your wife’s name isn’t Mina. I know that. I know everything about you. And I don’t mind that you’re married, I really don’t. I know that you love me more. We’ll work it out somehow.”

I’m rolling in blood splatter, I realize. It’s everywhere.

“I told everyone you’d find me one day. Everyone at the hospital said I was delusional. And then there you were, pretending to be a mailman just to get close to me!” She throws back her head and laughs.

I try to stand, but can only manage to get myself on all fours. I crawl slowly away from her toward the other side of the living room. There’s an old landline phone on the end table. I round the edge of the sectional sofa and my hand hits something warm and solid.

Mina. Her eyes stare into mine, unblinkingly. She’s covered in blood. I collapse beside her, flutter shaking hands over her body. I’m trying to find the source of the blood, where to apply pressure. There’s too much of it. A sob chokes me. I feel sick.

Jillian comes to stand beside me. “All you had to do was knock on the door, George. No need to pretend. Unless it really was research for a role. I haven’t heard of you taking on something like that, but I suppose it’s possible I missed the information…”

“I’m not George Clooney,” I croak. My hand finds my wife’s face and I scoot closer to her, caress her cheek. “Mina, oh baby, I’m so sorry.”

Jillian bends down and I feel a slight pinch in my neck. She tosses a syringe to the side then grabs my hair and tugs me away from Mina’s body.

“Now you stop that.” She gives me a surprisingly strong slap across the face. It reverberates through my skull, mingling with the sharp pain at the base of my brain. The pain dulls quickly, but so does the rest of my body. I feel fuzzy.

“You’re confused, George. You took a nasty fall, bumped your head pretty good. That”—she points with the knife—“is not your wife. That is a crazy psycho who broke into your home and if it weren’t for me, might be slicing you to bits right now. I saved your life, George.”

Her words seem to slow. Everything seems to slow.

“The stress of this intruder has to be enormous,” she says as she guides my head to her lap. “I gave you a little something to make you relax. It’s very good. They used to give it to me all the time. You’ll take a little nap and when you wake up, I’ll have this mess taken care of. Then we can finally be alone.”

She’s stroking my forehead. I try to protest, but my words come out in an incomprehensible slur. I can barely keep my eyes open.

“Shh, now,” she says. “Everything is okay. I’ll take care of you.” She kisses my lips, sticks her tongue in for a moment. I try to bite her tongue but I can’t move. Her mouth tastes like my wife’s blood. I wish I could gag. She nuzzles me some more, crooning at me, the same words, over and over.

“George and Jillian forever.”