Margaret entered her studio. A heavy silence filled the mostly vacant room. All four walls painted in cloudy white, except where the shadow of her wax mannequin stood undressed where she left him. A pole protruded up its neck. Both hands propped besides his waist, each finger bent in an arthritic angle, but reaching out far enough so that his suit could rest in his arms. Without a head the body stood at six feet tall. Barrel chested, and richly endowed, she loved her creation.
A small counter waited for her besides the wax body. Her tools lay in disarray among pieces of discarded wax. Transparent boxes containing imperfect eyeballs, teeth, lips, ears. She set down her coffee, and wasted no time procrastinating. She knew exactly what she wanted this time.
It came to her the night before. She swallowed a few oxycontin, and let her imagination swell. The perfect husband, she fantasized. A man of deep thought, a man of patience, a man subtle and tame. Intelligent, and a thoughtful. Yes, that’s what she wanted that night.
She gave him a thick skull, but made his jaw and chin unproportional to the top half of his head. An ametuer mistake, Margeret lamented. She had only been working with wax for a decade since retiring from the army. The interests in crafts had always been with her. Sewing and knitting, to pottery, to making birdhouses, and for a short time gardening has been in her life. For those ten years she wore the kind of clothes her grandmother would wear, and lost interest in the world outside her home. When her pension check came in the mail, she would go out to cash it and shop for groceries, but she no longer recognized any of the faces on the tabloids, and the things that young boys and girls wore made her grimace. She couldn’t travel home fast enough. She had wax cats to feed, and a bare home to keep spotless. Every room had immaculate walls untouched by pins for decorations of any kind. She liked it that way. No shelves, only a loveseat and a nightstand. Dust and curly hairs stuffed the outlets. She made her bed every morning the same way, and always had her curtain drawn. She shook all the time, until she sat down to work on a craft. Once she had her hands on wax her nerves calmed. Sudden noises still caused her to scream and jump from her seat, but with the doors and windows closed very little distracted her from the work she committed to accomplish. Yet even as she scraped lays of wax away with a scalpel, her eyes popped like a frogs and the fuzz where one might have eyebrows remained raised as if caught in suspense.
She wove a graying beard thick with volume and applied it around the jaw, chin, and up to his bald head. The moustache she applied curled from its fat middle into thin hooks. She didn’t want him to look too old, but she wanted someone distinguished. Some bags under the eyes she had no problem with. Some wrinkles on his forehead. She couldn’t decide what kind of hair she wanted on his head, so she left his scalp clean. She stopped work only to get a drink of water. Hunger stabbed at her stomach but she didn’t care about that so long as her hands produced work. When completed she fawned over the lifeless head, hugging it, and humming a sweet little tune before taking it with her to the naked mannequin.
The suit that had been neatly folded and placed into his arm had fallen to the floor. So invested into her work she hadn’t even noticed but the sullen disturbance rattled her fists. She balled them up and swallowed the angst. She picked up the suit, and dressed the mannequin. Then she took the head and placed it over the pole.
She kissed him on his cheek. With eager eyes leaking joyous tears, she giggled like a girl, fiddling her fingers below her chin. The embarrassing realization that the apron and gloves she wore would appear lazy and uncultured compared to someone not covered in wax arose. The bouncing she did with her toes stopped but he didn’t notice. With a bold grin, he reached out to take her hands.
Margaret gave him a brief tour of her studio. They spent most of their time in the closet where she kept most of her supplies. He closely inspected the materials she used, taking everything out, reading anything printed on it, and placing it back.
“You’re an artist?” He inquired. “Then you’ve read Bernett Newman.”
“Have I?” She asked keeping her voice down.
“Aesthetics is for the artist as Ornithology is for the birds. Do you recall?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Please, my love, do allow me to indulge myself in reciting his brilliant words. The abuse of beauty compels the concept of art forward, as the oxen does the cart, but art must not be confused with life itself as art is a reflection of ourselves. I am enchanted. Will you do me the pleasure of exhibiting a private display of your work for me?”
“Why, certainly. I store my work in the garage.” Holding each other at the waist, she walked him into the hallway, into the kitchen where she had to take her arm away to unlock the garage door. Owning no car, she had plenty of space. As she unlocked the door she explained “I started out making candles and grew out from there. You’re body is the biggest thing I ever made, but even so I made it piece by piece. Everything else is smaller than your head.”
They walked into the dark garage together. With the tug of a string a lightbulb lit up the garage. A work bench hosted a row of small wax horses. Dozens of candles cluttered shelves around the perimeter. Busts on the shelf below the workbench intrigued the suitor. He walked away from her to and knelt down to inspect them, stroking his beard.
“I see you are an ametuer, and one that has been sculpting for some time. I do assume that I’m the first husband you’ve created, as none of these heads have the color or the touch of what the French call un personnage.”
Dread pounding against her ribcage. She couldn’t follow if he intended to insult her or if she simply didn’t know enough about her craft to know any better. The Suitor could tell this by the nervous expression draining the color from her face.
“May I inquire about your library?”
“Yes. My books are in my bedroom.” He came to her side and they crossed the kitchen to the hall and through the door opposite the studio. She turned the light on and showed him the trunk at the foot of her bed. She opened it, and showed him her collection of books. His eyes widened and he got down, pulling each on up, and reading every word on their cover, and placing the ones he wanted under his arms. Margaret had no recollection of what books she stored or how many she had actually read. She held her arms against her chest.
Once he found the books, the Suitor had little interest in Margaret. She remained in the bedroom, a soundless mouse, turning page after page, then moving onto the next book. He acknowledged her when he wanted a notebook and paper which she happily delivered. When the clock rolled around to 8:00pm she climbed into bed, while the Suitor sat against the wall, the stack of books growing as he went through one after another.
When she woke up at 6:00am, he sat right where she left him. The stack of books now surrounded him. He put the last one down, and stroked his beard. She asked him if he wanted breakfast, and he look surprised.
“I forgot all about you. I became so immersed in my studies but I’m almost completed.” He read the last page of War And Peace, and put the book away in the stack. When Margaret got up to she noticed the bare surface of the trunk. He had read every book. She looked back at him, and to her disgust, he had begun reading them again, starting with The Interpretation of Dreams. Margaret began to change her clothes in front of him, hiding the scar necklacing her her neck with his frail arms, but turning to check if he watched her. His eyes ran like rails over the pages, oblivious to her nudity. She put a morning dress on, and called on him.
“The Oedipus complex is an interesting theory, but how can it apply to one that is homosexual, one must inquire.” Is how he responded.
“Who’s Oedipus?” She asked.
“Only one of three surviving plays written by the apt Greek Sophocles. I’m sure you’ve read Oedipus Tyrannus though I don’t see a copy in your collection. ‘Let every man in mankind's frailty consider his last day; and let none presume on his good fortune until he find Life, at his death, a memory without pain.’ Wisdom transcends age and culture, dear wife. Then why is it, I am troubled to question, why you appear so uncomfortable in your own home?”
She didn’t realize he had asked her a question and only nodded shyly. He stroked his beard, and flipped through the notes he had taken.
“It cannot be my presence here that disturbs you. Quite the opposite. However there is small chance that I have earned enough trust to be indulged in the tragedy that darkens your eyes, such as it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one understands the experiences that compels one to live in the fashion tailored for yourself but for you, and perhaps Mr. Freud. Though many of his theories are preposterous in light of modern psychology, your condition won’t take a thinker like Freud to diagnose. Tell me, your father and mother fought constantly, yes?”
She nodded.
“These fights were physical, and when one couldn’t fight the other, they came to you, yes?”
She nodded, her hands shaking.
“That’s why you joined the military. You’re not a patriotic woman, nor are you a violent enough to pursue a career in warfare. The pension certainly appealed to you, but that’s not why you enlisted. Two reasons drove you to that commitment. You wanted to prove to your mother that a woman is capable and strong enough to carry herself, and you wanted to escape your dysfunctional household. None of that is why you’re such a nervous woman.” He stood up, stepped over the books, came to her and took her hands, and spoke softly. “ Certainly I am no threat to you, but I feel your trembling hands indicating otherwise. You carry an insurmountable burden with you. A shameful attack on your life, your pride, your spirit! A victim hiding in her fortress, anything that she can’t control makes her nervous. This constant worrying has caused your early aging, even your balding. Yes! You can hide nothing from your husband, and will find that there is no controlling creation. But can you accept turmoil? Can you accept me?”
Margaret pulled away and left the room. The suitor shrugged and went back the books. He picked up De Rarum Natura, and stroked his beard as Margaret peeked from the corner, entering on her tiptoes with a heavy tool slumping her shoulder. The suitor didn’t notice, perhaps he already knew, but she stood at his back raising an axe. Her murderous shadow cast across the room. The suitor had time to say, “Please, you're in my light.” Before the axe came down and swiped his head off. The wax body remained motionless while the bearded head cried “MERCY” as it rolled across the room.
She scooped the head up, took it into the garage and dropped it into an empty crate, closing the lid to drown out his concise and pointed arguments against her actions as she shut out the lights and locked the door behind her. She made eggs and bacon, the axe resting on the kitchen table, and decided she wanted a new husband. One that had nerves of steel. One that shared the experience of a hard family life. A traditional man, the kind that used to be. Someone that always thinks ahead, not for the present. After she ate, she went back to work creating a new husband.
This new suitor had rounded eyebrows, small, furtive eyes, and unlike the last one, a long cheekbones, and a sturdy jaw line. Pouty lips, and scalp carpeted in buzzed black hair. She placed this one on the pole, and kissed it on the lips. The suitor became alert, twitching then standing up while she remained kneeling, looking up in admiration while he stared down at her with considerable disapproval, raising one eyebrow, and sliding his lips back and forth.
“Well, woman, are you going to sit there or get me some smokes?”
“I-I don’t smoke.”
“Don’t know what you’re missin’ Dollface. Better get up.” He offered an arm, and she took hold of it. When he pulled her to her feet it came with such force that she thought that he would grab and her and perform unspeakable acts. She liked the idea, but muted the thoughts when he put his hands on his waist, and eye her up and down. “So you made me, huh? I suppose you think you’re some hot shit. Right?”
“N-no.”
“You’re humble. I like that in a woman. Some gals talk too much. The rest talk all the time. But how many actually have anything to say? Too few, in my humble opinion. You know better, don’t cha? Tell me, jewel eyes, where you keep your smokes?”
“I don’t have any.”
“That’s strike one, doll. Why not?”
“They cause cancer.”
“Strike two. Listen, I’ve been smoking three packs a day since I was twelve and no harm’s been done to me” He paused to hack unpleasant goo from his throat. “Excuse me. Just because some pencil neck in a white coat says so doesn’t make it so. Now, you better put on a coat.”
“Why?”
“Cause you’re my date, Doll. We’re going to get some smokes.” He went to the closet, pulled out one of the coats hanging on a hook, and held it open for her to put on. She liked the service and thought he picked out a decent one. As they left, he took the keys from her hands and locked the door for her. They walked alongside one another as the evening sun set against the sky. Margaret's stomach rumbled. Time had gotten away from her, and she had been so excited that she forgot to eat. She liked this new husband. More brash than she preferred, but it gave her a tingle. She reached for his hand. Large, and tough, she wanted to squeeze it and feel him squeeze back, but he whipped it away and shot her a look of disbelief.
“Woman, we’re in public!”
She led him to the gas station where he stood in front of the cashier and asked for“Manoli Dandies”. The cashier raised his thick black eyebrows in confusion.
“Don’t have ‘em? Fine. How about some Bull Durhams? “
The cashier rubbed his greasy locks as Margaret swayed back and forth, her eyes scanning the door as she played with the cash in her dainty palms.
“What’s the world coming to these days. How about Chesterfields? You got ‘em? Hallelujah,I want three packs.”
The cashier took down the cigarettes and run them up as margaret approached with the money.The suitor smirked and looked at the cashier.
“The doll’s got her own money, can you believe it? Next she’ll want to vote.”
As they left, she told him that she had been in the military, which shocked her suitor. The smoke dropped from his lips and he didn’t even notice. She told him about her career, the places she had sent to, and the wars that she had been a part of.
“What is the world coming to?” He lit another cigarette. “First, a sand nigger is selling smokes, next thing I find out is that doll’s are in the army. Do elephants fly?”
“You shouldn’t call anyone a sand nigger.”
“Why not? It’s what my old man called ‘em.”
“It’s hurtful.”
“You think that’s hurtful? My old man caught me stealing his smokes once, so he held my arm under an iron and sent me to bed without dinner. That was hurtful. I was working in a factory capping tins for Spam. See the scars on my hands? That’s hurtful. One time I got a loaf of bread because I was hungry, and on the street. A sand nigger, just like that one, comes from nowhere and gives me a loaf of bread. Then a gang of Irish white trash jumped me, held me down and took turns laying punches on me. They stole the bread, and I couldn’t talk for two weeks. I had a broken jaw, drank whiskey to make the pain go away, went to work. That was hurtful.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I don’t need your sympathy. All I need,” He lit his third cigarette. “Is some healthy tobacco, and a good woman to go home to.”
“My folks hit me too.”
“You don’t say? Well, that’s life, woman. It made us stronger in the long run.”
“No.”
“Of course it did. You just told me that you fought in war, got promoted to a commanding officer, and you think it came from nowhere? If your folks had been buttercups, think any of that woulda happened? Think you woulda made me? Forget about it.”
She felt oddly secure. She wanted him to pull her over and hold her against him, but her tongue couldn’t find a way to justify the offenses he dropped onto her. In a way that disgusted her, the tingle grew more powerful the more he repulsed her.
Once home, she helped take off his coat and placed it on a hook. He reclined on the love seat, and grabbed an old newspaper. Barack Obama had visited the UN. The suitor rubbed this forehead, and muttered “You’ve got to be kidding me…”. Margaret didn't hear it. She disrobed before him, took the newspaper from his hands, and mounted him, laying hard wet kisses on his neck. He gasped and pushed her to the floor.
“My god, woman! Have you any decency?”
She started to cry.
“I’ll give you a reason to cry.” With a hard left, he struck her across the face. “Now get dressed and get some dinner ready.”
She only cried harder as horrendous memories re emerged. A dark alley, dirt and broken glass sticking to the blood in her hair as someone dragged her by the feet to a pickup truck. She got up and went to the kitchen, where instead of preparing dinner, she took the biggest knife she had, held it over the stove, went back in to find the suitor napping comfortably, the cigarette remaining in his mouth even as he slept.. She forced the blade into his neck and sawed away. His hands grabbed at her as he swallowed the smoke. His eyes lit up as he tried to get up but only agonized gasps escaped. In four sawing motions the head fell from the body.
“You’ll get yours, dollface!” The suitor cried as she took into the garage and dropped him in the same crate as the bearded philosopher. She left, slamming the door and leaving them in the dark. She decided that she actually would prefer a man that is more sensitive. Someone that would listen to her, and bring her flowers. Yes, she thought, as she entered the studio, and swallowing a couple more pills. That is exactly right.
She made this one with dark hair parted to the side. She wanted a bigger nose, but cut half of it off. Shaping the edge to a point, it came to be the size of pen cap. It tickled her fancy so she kept it. He wanted his forehead to be narrow but seeable. Wrinkless, this new one she made younger than the other few. His lips poked into his cheeks so that they would fold over a little bit. And Dimples! She couldn’t help herself. Two in his cheeks and one in his chin. She loved him.
MArgaret felt tired. When the clock struck three am she jumped from her seat, holding the head like a shield. She laughed with exhaustion, taking the head to bed with her and holding it to her chest like a nursing baby as she slept.
In the morning she placed the head onto the pole of the body, and kissed him on the forehead. She watched with one hand on her hip as his hazel eyes shifted around the room. With a lazy yawn, he leaned forward, and wrapped his arms around her, moaning with contentment as his soft hands massaged her back.
“You smell like roses.” He said.
“I smell like wax.” she corrected.
“I like it. Let’s shower together.”
She smiled and led him into the bathroom, where they undressed and washed one another.
When they exited, Margaret felt like she had hit the nail on the head. She held his hand with a sensation of immortality that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe never before.
“I like how you touch me.” He told her, embracing her. “Do it again.”
“I have to make breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Hungry for you.”
“That’s great, but I’m starving. What do you like to eat?”
“You never have time for me.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. You eat, don’t you?”
“Of course I eat! How could you be so insensitive…” He pulled away from her and began to weep into his palms.
She threw him his suit.
“Put that on and be in the kitchen in twenty minutes. We’re having bacon and eggs.”
She cooked bacon, but had forgotten eggs, so she microwaved some instant biscuits. Just as well. She made some coffee. It took twenty one minutes to put together. She looked at her watch, but the suitor hadn’t come in. Annoyed she entered the living room, where she found him weeping at the window.
“Food is ready. Stop being frivolous and come here.”
“I’m sorry. The sun light coming through the window is so beautiful!” He collapsed against the sill and balled his eyes out.
She started to eat, but his food only grew colder. She went back to the living room, and found him nowhere. Nervous ticks went up her arm. The bathroom door hung open. She crept inside, and peeked. The suitor had her makeup out, and was trying on different eye shadows, and lipsticks.
“What are you doing?”
“You never buy me any makeup so I have to use yours.”
“For what?”
“I want to look as beautiful as I feel. Don’t you understand?”
The streaks of mascara cried down his cheeks.
“Get out of my makeup. And you look like a whore.”
He started bawling and ran past her, knocking her against the wall where she slid the floor, in a state of shock. When he saw this, he came back and knelt down to her level, embracing her and apologizing. She accepted his apologies, his deep voice sincere and moving.
They spent the rest of the day sitting on the couch. The suitor went on and on. He let Margaret talk some, but he always interrupted to add his own input. Every sentence began with “I” or “me” or “my”. Once night fell, Margaret had enough, but he knew that telling him to shut up would only cause him to cry. He lay down and rested his head on her lap.
“Tell me you love me.”
“I-”
“You do, right? You aren’t just toying with my feelings? It’s so hard to find a person to connect to, but I feel like I can tell you anything. I can open up to you. There’s no one else like that in the whole world. Just tell me you love me.”
“I-”
The doorknob jolsted.
“Someone’s there…”
“Who?”
The jostling stopped. They both sat still. Listening. Waiting. Then a crash broke the silence as glass fell to the floor. The suitor stood up and screamed.
“Do something! Do something!” he prayed to Margaret as he huddle in the corner.
The door unlatched. The backdoor! Margaret reached beneath the loveseat and produced a baseball bat. A ray of silver light cut through the dark hallway. Feet shuffled across her hardwood floor. HEavy breathing ruined the stealth. Coming closer, and closer, Margaret waited, bearing the bat. When the head appeared, the suitor screamed at a pitch so high that Margaret's ear ached at the sound. She swung the bat at the spectre who had already begun to flee. He bolted out the door into the dark.
Margaret called the police. Once she told them what happened and they left, the suitor came out of hiding.
“Are they gone? That was so scary!”
Margaret left the room, and came back with the axe.
“What’s that for?” He asked, pleaded her to reconsider as she lopped his head off. He cried the whole time she carried him by the hair to the crate with the others.
She took a handful of pills. Someone needed to fix the window that the intruder had broken. She decided she wanted a handy man. A gentleman, a stoic, someone with a good mind for her.
She got to work right away. Her womanhood burned as she molded bold, blue eyes and a head of blonde hair. She gave him a strong nose with wide nostrils. Some moles here and there. She kissed each one, and wasted no time putting the head back on the body. The suitor fell back, stunned, when seeing his wife for the first time.
“You’ve got to be an angel.”
“Maybe. Are you good with tools?”
“Yes, I’m a hell of a craftsman.”
She showed him the damage, which he inspected. He informed her that until he picks up a new window that he would just put plywood over it. She had no plywood, so they used a cabinet door. He wanted screws, but she had only nails. With two swings he had each nail in. She liked watching him work.
She liked this one because he didn’t talk much, and did everything she told him to do. Take out the trash, cook, clean. He even helped her with wax working. The studio had become cluttered and hardened scales of wax spotted the floors and walls. She had the suitor remove them. He used a chisel. The wax lifted from the floor, but it took floor and wall with it. Before Margaret could notice, he had the damage filled in with wood glue and putty. She liked having something for him to do, because if she didn’t he would follow her around the house. Into the bathroom, into her studio, even when she went to get the mail. It made her nervous. He didn’t act like a puppy dog, but a parole officer. She couldn’t explain his suspicion, or his caution with her. When she got her check, she went out to cash it, and the suitor insisted that he come along. He kept his eye on her the whole time. The sensation of heavy eyes pressing against her caused to to mis write her own signature on the check. The teller at the bank even gave the suitor a strange look.
“It’s okay. I’m her husband.” The suitor told the banker.
At the grocery store he took every item she put in the cart and inspected it, inquiring if she thought it was nutritious enough, or too expensive. As they left he asked:
“Why did you make a man?”
“Because I wanted a husband.”
“I know, but have you considered talking to someone.”
“Talking to someone?”
“Yes. Going out, and talking to someone.”
“Like where?”
“A bar, a park, a bookstore, a cafe. Outside. Ever think of that?”
“If I could do that, I would’ve.”
“But you haven’t. Why?”
She couldn’t answer.
“Fine. You don’t have to say.”
“I’m going to the hardware store to buy a new window.”
“I don’t want to fix it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not fixing it.”
“But I said so.”
“The door works. It doesn’t need to be fixed.”
Margret’s viens felt like surging power cords. She balled her fists and grinded her teeth.
“You need to leave me alone. When we get home. I’m going to my studio, and you’re going to leave me alone.”
“No.”
“I’ll lock the door.’
“I’ll break it down.”
“Why are you being so difficult?”
“What’s in that crate in the garage?”
“What crate?”
“There’s one you put a cinder block on top of. Must be something inside you don’t want getting out.’
“Stay out of the garage.”
“You take one step into that studio, and I see what’s in the crate.”
“I made you, I can destroy you.”
“I thought I was good enough for you. I thought I was making you happy. I’ve been a fool. Now I know better.”
Margaret knew exactly how she wanted to kill this one. When they got home she did exactly as she said. She went into the studio. First, she screamed and kicked at the walls. Pieces of wall crumbled and fell. She took her stool and hurled it against the other side of the room. She collapsed to her knees, and hurled furious fists into the floor. Her knuckles bled, and her feet ached, but she wasn’t finished. She dug through her closet, knowing she still had it. Simple, fine, but deliciously cruel. Her eyes bulged with joy when she had the piano wire in her hands. She liked how it cut into her hands when stressing against something. Almost as much as she liked to hear people gagged for air but receiving nothing. If only had had her knife back then, or her gun. Then she could’ve immobilized her assailants, and then she wouldn’t have the pleasure of strangling one with piano wire.
She crept from the studio, being as quiet as a rodent. Tip toeing, checking each room, her veins pumping so fast that purple strains pressed against her skin. Each room was empty, but the garage. The door hung open. She made her way in. The light was on. She dropped the wire, and hit the floor in despair, sobbing and biting at her own arms until they bled.
The crate lid had been opened. The heads inside argued amongst one another about whose fault everything was. The suitor swung from a rafter.
Margaret took the crate and buried it in a field outside of town. Even as she filled in the hole, the heads screamed and begged her to stop. He didn’
t stop filling the hole until the weight of the dirt concealed their voices. Then she put rocks over the spot for good measure.
When she got home she took a hammer and broke off each limb from the wax man, then smashing them to pieces, knocking over the body and pounding it until a layer of rubbery dust covered the garage floor. She took all of her wax creations of melted them. All her tools and equipment she left in trash bags by the curb. She took some more oxycontin, and sat on the hard wood of her empty studio, staring into the blank walls, pondering what hobby she would occupy her time with next.
