The Looking-Glass Wife, short crime fiction by Margaret Shauers, Web Mystery Magazine Fall 2005

The Looking-Glass Wife

It was one o'clock on Tuesday afternoon when Jackson Ryan, alias Jacky O'Dell, decided to return to the wife he'd abandoned thirty years before.

For one thing, there was the issue of a sizable debt owed Big Red. For another, the hard wedge of garbage served at the only chop house he could afford was even greasier than usual. His ulcer firing up made him remember Bella quite fondly.

Boring, broad and frowzy. She'd hardly thrilled him, but had seemed an acceptable alternative to 'Nam. Bella's job as a cook was convenient, too, when days at the crap table took a downswing. Bella really could cook, too, and she'd been damned grateful for not remaining a spinster. "Old Bella won't have changed," Jackson decided, tossing slacks, socks and a pair of ragged tennis shoes into his carry-all. Then he hocked the landlady's gold clock and hoofed it to the nearest bus stop. No, Bella wouldn't have changed; not the way she'd carried on about marriage being "sacred" after the war when he'd hinted at divorce. "Reading Bella's mind is as easy as seeing into a looking-glass," he told himself across two states and over the beer he bought with his last two bucks in the first tavern at the end of the line. "She'll welcome me with open arms."

Jacky had quickly resumed his true identity by cutting up his hundred-buck fake driver's license and kicking it back with the rest of the week's litter under the bus seat. He'd retrieved his own, driver’s license from the innersole in one of those old shoes. Out of date, sure. But he had a story.

Smart thinking, too, he prided himself as he rehearsed the tale of getting hit by a mugger, total amnesia and sudden remembrance. It was the perfect story to go with all those drippy romances Bella read. Yeah. And maybe he should throw in a 'bout of pneumonia. He didn’t need to lie about the ulcer.

"Explain my white skin," he mused, walking down the street he'd once despised. "No sense Bella suspecting the only time I've seen daylight lately was on that rattlin' bus."

The story worked. She'd been shocked speechless at the sight of him, of course, but softened when he mentioned shouting out her name to every passerby on a busy street the minute he remembered his true identity. And when he got to the pneumonia, she promptly nuked up a bowl of chicken soup in the microwave. Even canned soup soothed the
ulcer so admirably that he didn't realize anything was wrong until the fair skin of her face broke out in mottled blotches, the way it always had when she got nervous.

"Oh, dear," she sighed. "What will I do?"

"You aren't ...?" he began, a horrible suspicion growing.

"Oh, I'm not married." she stammered when he voiced the fear. "And I didn't want to do it, but the policemen and the lawyer – well, they convinced me when we couldn't find you. Jacky! You've been declared dead these last five years."

It seemed impossible, but more blotches disfigured her face. "We'll have to return it, of course," she explained to his blank stare. It dawned. Those insurance policies she'd been suckered into buying from a drip-nose kid whining about college. Lord bless her, Bella must have kept up the payments on his, as well as her own.

"Insurance!" he said explosively. "$25,000!" Only half what he was into Big Red, but fifteen should stall him and the rest provide a stake. "You collected?" he demanded.

Miserably, she nodded. "The lawyer invested it, too. I can't touch the principal, but by adding the worth of the house, I was able to quit my job and have a tidy little income. I've done so much around the house, Jacky. Just look at the new drapes. And a good soft bed for the guest room. Only – now you're alive, I guess the trust fund must be broken to repay the insurance company. And maybe I'll like working again. It might seem new and different now."

Stupid broad! She'd tied up every cent, even the house her dad left her, which he'd been thinking to mortgage. The only way to get the money out not only meant losing it, but was sure to result in publicity – the last thing he could afford. He could see the headlines: "Dead Man Returns to Life." With pictures on the wire services – sure to be seen by the man who'd been threatening to put him six feet under. For real.

"Bella, darlin'," he said hurriedly, inventing as he went. "We'll give the money back. Just not yet. I learned a lot these past years. Been working, too. Steady, before I got the pneumonia. I came home planning to support you. But the doc--he says I need a month or two of rest. Wait until I can work, Bella. Even the neighbors needn't see me if you don't let them in."

Doubt flickered across her face, then something else. She'd really hated working, he realized. Maybe – sure, Bella wanted to believe his lie. If he could get her to swallow it – well, one way or another, he get that $25,000.

"I mean it, darlin’," he said earnestly. "I'm a changed man. Why, I didn't even remember the gambling until a week ago. And then I was so ashamed I cried."

Doubt lingered in her eyes for a moment, but the blotches began to disappear. Slowly, she nodded. Then hesitantly, she said, "I'll show you to the guest room, Jacky. It's just that – well, after so many years, everything seems strange."

He tried not to show relief. Bella was dumpier than ever.

"I've been sick," he reminded her. "For now, just seeing you will keep me happy."

The house was nicer than when he'd left and the guest bed was comfortable. It took only two days, however, for Jacky to remember why he'd been so desperate to escape.

These days, Bella didn't even go off to work, but was always there, with her wistful, puppy eyes and ugly, frizzed hair. Even the food couldn't eclipse the freckles and the frequent mottling of her skin when she worried about the insurance.

"We'll pay it back," Jacky said so often he knew what people meant about broken records. "As soon as I'm able, we'll give them every cent. Don't you see, darlin'? It's just a short-term loan."

During his second week home, Jacky began thinking of swiping a few bucks from Bella's purse and sneaking off to his old haunts. He'd watched the street pretty close from the lazy-boy behind the new drapes. Big Red's goons had a reputation for tracking down their men, but he'd seen no one suspicious. During the second week, too, Bella stopped mentioning the insurance.

In fact, Jacky realized one morning, Bella'd pretty well stopped talking. She fed him wholesome meals and mottled when he looked at her. Then she scuttled off to fuss over another already-neat room. The food – and the lack of booze – had been filling out his thin frame, he realized as he shaved that day before breakfast. He was looking more like his old self and poor Bella, no doubt, was thinking of romance.

Which axed the idea of sneaking out.

"Never work," he grumbled. "Not if she's layin' awake nights, pining." He made an immediate point of mentioning he was feeling poorly over his sausage and eggs.

"Oh, dear," was the only response he got and Bella didn't mottle. Now what, he wondered, as he took up his place behind the drapes, could be biting her if not sex?

"I'm going to the drug store at the corner," she called just as he saw two of Big Red's thugs stalk across the street.

Before he could think of an excuse to keep her inside, the screen door clicked and the next thing Jacky heard was a rumbling monotone from one of the killers as they met her in the drive.

"Jackson Ryan?" he heard her echo. "Never heard of him."

The thug held out something plastic. It glinted in the morning sun and Jacky could see the slashed edges of the fake driver's license he should have known that filthy bus driver never would sweep out. Still, he wasn't too worried. Good, old, marriage-is-sacred Bella would protect him. He could see her stiffen. Silently he breathed a prayer she wouldn't mottle. Amazingly, she didn't. Instead she glanced across the drive and gave his window the strangest look. Sort of like that first night, an almost look of hope.

"No," she said clearly. "Jackson Ryan doesn't live here. Just my husband, Jacky O'Dell, recovering from a bout of amnesia. But it's the strangest thing. The man in that picture could almost be his twin."

He had time only to flip the latch on the screen door and begin to swing shut the heavy, inner door when footsteps pounded on the porch. The flimsy wood of the screen gave in minutes. As one thug's switchblade flicked and make a teasing prick against his neck, Jacky heard Bella's screams.

"Help!" she wailed and he could all but see her fat legs pumping as she raced down the street. "Help! Somebody; please help! Three men just ran into my house and one of them's the husband I long since thought was dead!"

The knife pricked again, more deeply. Jacky had time only to reflect that all looking-glasses have thick, black, impenetrable backings. But who'd ever have guessed that behind Bella's glass was a woman who liked being a widow?