Th Photograph

A middle aged woman becomes young and gorgeous upon her husband's request.

Norma White was looking out the window as she always did at a quarter-till-five. A greasy boy on a bike passed by, and then the next door neighbors who waved at her, and then her husband, George. As usual, he had a briefcase in his right hand and a black umbrella in his left. He stepped into a puddle of water which splashed onto his pant leg. He jumped up in surprise and dropped his umbrella. Norma chuckled, and opened the door.
    “Come in, honey!” She  called out. “ Dinner is hot and ready.”
    With a grunt, George shuffled in and threw his heavy coat on the couch. The house smelled of bread and lysol. ( Since their children had left for college, Norma had been working on her “self-improvement”, which consisted of cleaning rituals and watching the Martha Stewart cooking show.) The table was neatly set. In the center there was a large roasted chicken next to a bowl of mash potatoes and a plate of green beans.    
     The two sat down and said a short prayer. George took a big bite of the chicken, while Norma stared at him with anticipation. He smacked a bit and then took a gulp of water. He was hungry after having skipped lunch.
     “Do you like the chicken? I hope it’s not too dry.” Norma asked.
     “Same as always.” George took another bite and gulped it down.
     For ten minutes, there was silence except for the sounds of forks and chewing. Ever since their children had gone, dinner conversations were painfully short. Norma reminisced about their early days, how they would talk about movies and politicians, and getting a dog. After they had children, they discussed grades and table manners. Later, they moved on to work, chores and gossip. Before they knew it, there was nothing left to say. Occasionally, Norma would try to break the silence with a “How was work today” type of question, but George usually just gave a grunt.
     “Well, George dear, it looks like it’s already December,” Norma said, looking at the calendar on the fridge. “So, what would you like for Christmas this year? A tie? A sweater? What about one of those finance books you like?”
     He stared at his mashed potatoes in deep contemplation, then he raised his head and said “I want a young and beautiful wife. I never had that experience before,” He returned to his potatoes.
     “Okie dokie then,” she replied, pretending not to be shocked. Norma was not an ugly lady. Her nose was a bit too blunt, her middle a little too fat, but she was hardly hideous. She was merely homely. As a young girl, people called her “plain as paper.” She spent a great deal of her adolescence wishing she was thinner and prettier like the girls who got dates and phone calls. When she first met George in college, he told her “Norma, you are something better than beautiful.” She fell in love with his poetic way of speaking, his talent for making everything seem lovely and meaningful. Norma wondered exactly when he had stopped seeing the beauty that he uniquely saw. Did this also apply to the sky and trees and everything else he used to think was beautiful?
     When they finished eating, Norma did the dishes and put the leftovers in the fridge. They both went upstairs to their room. Sterilely, they changed into their nightclothes and slipped under the floral covers. They slept with backs touching each other’s. Norma fell asleep first, and then George did after being kept awake from her swine-like snoring. Neither of them dreamt that night.
     When George awoke in the morning, he found himself next to an exquisite looking red head lady with pert breasts.
     “Where is my wife?!” He was very concerned.
     “Silly boy, I am your wife,” she yawned. “You must be dreaming.” It was Norma’s voice. She caught a glance of herself in the mirror and looked pleased. 
     “Norma!” George embraced her. The couple made love until the afternoon.
A few weeks later, Christmas Eve came. George brought her to an acquaintance’s party. It was at a grand house with white marble floors and five crystal chandeliers scattered almost haphazardly around the house. George thought it was a perfect place to take such an attractive woman. “You’re a hot fox now,” He kept saying to her. He enjoyed introducing Norma to strangers. His face glittered with the happiness that came from knowing that other men lusted after his wife. 
     She was looking very sexy in that sparkling green gown George had bought for her. (“A beautiful lady needs beautiful clothes,” he told her.) All the other ladies asked her where she got it. Norma took great pleasure in throwing her head back in a glamorous laugh to say “Nordstrom’s dear! That’s where all the best deals come from.” At first, she shied away from envious and desirous eyes, but soon she found herself basking in the romance and mystique that comes with being beautiful. She glowed inside whenever another party-goer would compare her to Ava Gardner or Ingrid Bergman, to which she would respond with “Don’t you flatter me!” 
     While George was chatting with some other men, Norma leaned against the wall, nonchalantly sipping her water (which was in a wine glass). A light-haired man in his thirties approached her. He was as charming as a crooner. He kissed her hand and said “You’re the prettiest looking wallflower I’ve seen. But that’s okay, since I’m lonely too.”  He asked her to walk outside with him, and she followed. He draped his coat around her, and they strolled around the block with his arm wrapped around her waist. They talked all night about their favorite books, and their childhood experiences, and how good it felt to finally meet somebody who understood. He was a lovely talker; his sentences could have come straight out of Nabokov or Faulkner. He radiated a sophisticated yet boyish confidence, an unadulterated faith in his own good fortune. 
     “You are very wise for your age,” the young man remarked. 
     “I read well,” she replied. Norma never felt younger. 
     When they got close to the house, the man stopped in front of his car, which happened to be a Cadillac. He unlocked it, and then opened the passenger seat for Norma. She stepped in and sat in the white leather seat with her legs crossed. He eagerly got into the driver’s seat, grabbed Norma’s left hand and kissed her slowly, as if he was giving a girl her first kiss. His mouth tasted like breath mints and champagne. “Let’s drive away,” Norma said. He took her to his high-rise apartment in the middle of the city.
     Norma lived with him for a few years. After marrying him, she changed her name to Scarlett Dupont (the young man’s surname).  As the sophisticated lady of the house, her afternoons were booked with visits from senators, architects, and other philanthropists. Her wardrobe was an endless sea of fine jewelry and dresses, mostly imports from France and Italy. She spent her mornings playing bridge with the other rich wives who looked and almost moved like dolls. They were always smiling, as if to show that their teeth were as white as the pearls they wore around their thin necks. Naturally, Scarlett was always smiling too.
     Her new husband (his name was Fred) was what the other rich ladies called a “dreamboat”. He took Scarlett to fancy parties where they would call each other “darling” and smoke Cuban cigars with elegant hands. Sometimes he would excitedly say to his friends “Oh, isn’t she just a painting tonight?” Scarlett loved to be Fred’s priceless work of art, but perpetual champagne sipping, trips to Paris, and small talk quickly lost its luster. It was a tiring job to always be smiling and laughing.
     One day, Norma was mindlessly looking outside her bedroom window. She saw a lady in a long overcoat pass by, and then the neighborhood dog walker, and then she heard the telephone ring. Norma yawned and picked up. A tired female voice told her that George was at St. Mark’s hospital with a bad case of pneumonia.
     “How did he get my phone number?” Norma asked. 
     “We don’t know. You were listed as his emergency contact.”
Norma told herself that she would go on with her beautiful life as if she never received the phone call. But even after a few reads of the paper, a phone conversation with one of the ladies, and three iced teas, she couldn’t keep away the sting of guilt. She even started to miss George a bit.
     Since there was nothing on her agenda, she took a cab to the hospital. She had the feeling that she was making a horrible mistake, but she couldn’t help but feel a little excited to see George. It had been five years since she had left him. She imagined how those years could have gone if she had stayed with him. Evenings near the fire watching the Brady Bunch. Potlucks with the next-door neighbors. She would have been happy, or at least content. 
When she arrived at the front of the hospital, she took a deep sigh and pushed open the heavy door. (there was no gentleman around to rush to open it for her.)  At the front desk, she asked where George White was, and a chipper nurse wearing bright red lipstick led her upstairs to his room. 
     “He may not be himself,” the nurse explained, stopping in front of the door. “The doctor says that his condition is very severe. Because of his age, there is no guarantee that he’ll live for much longer.”
     “Oh, how terrible.” 
     “I’m sorry, miss. I’m sure he’ll be very happy to see you. You’re his daughter, right?”
     “His wife,” Norma corrected. 
     The nurse looked at her with a long, critical stare, and then opened the door. 
     “George, your wife is here to see you,” the nurse said in a sing-song voice. She left the room in a hurry.
    The room had dry air that smelled like sweat and rubbing alcohol. Norma’s old husband was lying on the bed, tethered to an IV bag. When she left him, he was excessively pudgy, his stomach sagging dismally over his belt. Now, he was so thin that the bedding seemed to swallow him. Everything about him was brittle. He looked at Norma with watery eyes, too tired to break eye contact.
    “Hello,” she said meekly. 
   “Norma,” he coughed. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you, for what you’ve become.”
Suddenly, his heart flatlined. The nurses and the doctors rushed in. They tried to jumpstart his heart, but they failed. His body jerked piteously. Norma stood there, frozen with guilt and grief. 
Norma looked around the the room and saw a photograph of herself on the bedside table. It was a picture of her before she became pretty. She was smiling in the picture, really smiling. Her eyes were too close together, and her face too wide, but that was a real smile. She remembered the exact moment George took the photo. It was on her fiftieth birthday. The kids planned a surprise party for her with a dozen balloons and a chocolate cake. She remembered that the cake was decorated with frosted flowers, and it said in bright blue cursive, “Happy Birthday, Dear Mother.” Norma began to cry. The nurses came to comfort her and told her that it is alright to cry in times of tragedy. But she was not crying for George; she was the tragedy. She was just as pathetic as George had become. 
     When the nurses left, she realized how much of a mess her mascara must have made. She checked her face in the bathroom mirror. To her surprise, she looked plain again. Her face was an old friend she was glad to see. She threw her head back in a diabolic laugh and walked out the hospital. “I’m better than beautiful!” she exclaimed. Hysterically, she hobbled back to her high-rise apartment (gladly, she carried her keys with her), and plopped herself down on her velvet couch. “Ha! Just wait till Fred comes home,” she grinned.

Author's Note

Is it too simple and fast paced? Should I add more dimension to the characters?