This is an early draft and unfinished to date, but I thought it worth inclusion.

The Long Suffering Wife

By M.R.Hubick

The artist was directed into the sitting room and he made himself as comfortable as he could on a rather bulky sofa neatly covered in a type of clear plastic that creaked loudly from the slightest movement. Casually he glanced around the room. “That’s odd” he thought, the couch wasn’t the only thing sheathed in plastic, everything else was as well, right down to the matching lampshades. He then turned to his host who sat gazing at him with a look that wouldn’t curdle cream but came close.

“You’re not going to make this easy for me are you” thought the artist, as he met his hosts disparaging eyes. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and with hands clasped in front of him the artist directed all his attention to the gentleman of the house.

“Were you aware sir that there is a common basis to all forms of art?” he said, while at the same time trying to instil a sense of gravitas into the tone of his voice. “Under the circumstances” thought the artist “gravitas might be the way to go“.

The gentleman of the house, his name was Arthur, looked back at the artist sceptically, then turned to his wife.

“Common basis, art, what’s he talking about Martha?”

“I don’t know dear” replied his long suffering wife.

The artist considered this and realized he may have jumped into his pitch a little too quickly. He rephrased his opening statement.

“I think what I meant to say sir was the basis of all forms of art are the same” “Not much different” he thought but it was worth a try.

Now, the gentleman of the house looked at him with down right disdain then quickly turned to his wife again.

“Am I hearing this right Martha?” he asked, and then he paused, only to continue on in a more indignant tone “What a load of crap. I suppose next he’ll be telling me he wears a frilly pink tutu and dances around with a brush in his hand while thinking up some silly poem or other” and then added under his breath “And why the hell would I care anyway?”

Understandably the artist was rather taken aback. Not knowing how to respond he directed his attention to the gentleman’s obviously long suffering wife sitting in a matching wing chair to his left, and he couldn’t help but notice it was the only piece of furniture in the room not covered in plastic. She regarded him sympathetically and with a pleasant smile. “Thank God for that” he thought and gave her a slight shrug, as if to say; “He does realize I’m sitting here, doesn’t he?”

In reply Martha smiled again comfortingly and returned his shrug, then patiently gazed back at her husband. She was a patient woman. She had to be.

“He hasn’t actually said anything yet dear” said the long suffering wife to her husband. He was agitated and she knew her words wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference, but she had to try anyway.

“Well, these artists, always banging on, talk, talk, talk. He should get a job, that’s what I think; they should all get a job” and then he grumbled quietly almost to himself “the world would be a better place, that’s what I think”

“Yes dear” replied Martha calmly, to the object of her marital existence, while in her mind it sounded more like; “Nobody really cares what you think dear”.

Then the long suffering wife lowered her head and returned to her knitting while the gentleman of the house, having had enough, promptly stood up and went out for a cigarette.

“Please, let me explain sir” implored the artist rather more loudly to a retreating and rotund posterior. In exasperation he turned back to his hostess.

“I really would like to explain” he said, and made a mental note to try not to sound quite so pleading.

“I know dear, but he won’t listen” she replied, and then added more conspiratorially as she leaned slightly toward him “He never does you know”

At this, a head hazed in smoke quickly jutted in from around the doorjamb. “I do too!” cried the gentlemen of the house, and then added; “He’s looking for money isn’t he Martha, artists are always looking for money”. With that the head disappeared with a loud “humph” as quickly as it had come, smoke trailing closely behind.

“Well no, not really, well Ok, I am but…” replied the artist in his own defence to the long suffering wife, but suddenly, in mid sentence the head of the gentleman of the house shot back into view.

“See, I told you Martha, I knew he’d be asking for money, I told you”.

The artist’s attention was now drawn quickly back to the doorway, but completely out of the blue a rather large shiny object went flying past his head in a bee line directly toward the head of the gentleman of the house. It was a fast and well aimed shot but the gentleman of the house was faster as he jerked back, and the object, a heavy glass sculpture of an ornate elephant, followed through only to be partially imbedded in the wall on the other side of the hall. The gentleman of the house then shot his head back into the doorway and stuck his tongue out, but retreated out of sight just as quickly, presumably to avoid a second volley.

For his part the artist could not be sure if the tongue was meant for him or his hostess, and of course the thought was probably irrelevant under the circumstances as he now noticed the facing wall was indeed pockmarked with the same strike pattern across much of its surface. The elephant had obviously come in handy on more than one occasion.

Slowly and with somewhat wide eyed trepidation the artist turned back to his hostess, but instead of seeing an image transfixed with anger, or something, or anything for that matter, she had contentedly resumed her knitting. The long suffering wife then calmly raised her eyes back to the artist.

“Tea dear?” she asked, and smiled sweetly.

“Ah, no thank, ah, well maybe, ah, no I don’t think, ah, but thank you anyway” and his voice faded off as he noticed as many as a dozen objects , much like the glass elephant, sitting on the tables at either side of her.

Suddenly, and in light of what he had just witnessed, it occurred to him that there was a purpose here that spoke more of projectile compatibility than aesthetic consideration, and he found the thought disturbing.

“The woman’s armed and dangerous” he thought and then glanced once again to the kind and calmly visage sitting before him.

“Cookie?” continued the long suffering wife as if on cue, and raised a plate heaped in a mound of prettily swirled shortbread pastries covered in dots of multicoloured hard sugar of a type the artist was more than familiar with. His mother kept a large stock of the same confectionary for guests but he found them to be sickly sweet and politely declined the offer.

The long suffering wife nodded and returned the plate to the coffee table beside a large potted Poinsettia and a stack of “Knitting Today” magazines, then sat back and gently crossed her hands on her lap, being careful not to slip a stitch in the unusually long striped scarf she was knitting, presumably for her husband but to what other purpose the artist was now not quite sure.

“What were you saying dear?” the long suffering wife asked the artist, with a look that was at once demure and really quite welcoming.

“I’m warning you Martha, don’t talk to him” came a stern response from the hallway followed by a billow of smoke through the door.

“Yes dear” and then she paused only to look back to the artist in seemingly complete disregard of her husband.

“What were you saying dear?”

“Martha” screamed the gentleman of the house. He was now standing half way in the door but still half concealed, his cigarette clenched tightly between barred teeth and a look in his beading eyes that would curdle cream, or melt cheese for that matter. At the sound of his voice the artist turned quickly toward his reluctant gentleman host and to his chagrin gazed upon what could only be described as a frightening visage, but this time instead of lingering he quickly shifted his attention back to the long suffering wife just in time to see her casually glance down to the table on her right.

To his horror he looked on as she quickly made her choice, then picked up a glass orb the size of a baseball and hefted it a couple of times, causing the flecks of plastic inside to fall gently on a tiny red clad, white bearded Santa behind his reindeer pulling an ornate slay piled high with gifts for the kiddies. She then looked back to her dear husband with a slightly raised eyebrow and the corners of her mouth turned up in the beginnings of a sly smile.

“Martha, don’t you…” cried the gentleman of the house, and raised his hands up with fingers splayed, his palms facing towards his wife in anticipation of the inevitable. But his words were cut short. With a speed and accuracy that would have rivalled the great Satchel Paige on one of his better days, she quickly drew her arm back and almost effortlessly hurled the now deadly thing at her dear husband.

This time however the gentleman of the house was not quite fast enough and the orb glanced off his forehead as he dove back into the relative safety behind the doorjamb, while Santa and his reindeer careened into the wall and dropped innocently onto the floor with a loud thud.

Without missing a beat the long suffering wife nonchalantly turned back to the artist. “What were you saying dear?”

To Be Continued…