Broken Vows

On their five year anniversary, a woman makes her delightful husband a supper that he is unlikely to ever forget . . .

Caroline put the rat poison back into the cabinet beneath the sink and continued with making supper. John would be home soon, and she wanted to have everything ready for him when he arrived; he’d been working quite hard all week, staying late for any extra hours he could snatch, and coming home exhausted and beat down. For all the hard work he’d been doing, and the fact that their anniversary just happened to be today, Caroline took it upon herself to make sure the house was impeccable for when he came home, free of any unwarranted pests invading her home, and to make a meal she was certain John wouldn’t anytime soon forget.

Her mother had manufactured a marvelous beef stroganoff recipe. Caroline had been very adamant about learning how to make it so that one day, someday in the future, she could make it for her husband—or even, someday soon, for her own family. It had been her favorite meal since she was a child, and it had quickly become one of John’s favorites, too; of the many things she knew how to make. There had even been a few times that the neighbors in their apartment building asked for the recipe, though Caroline knew they would never be able to make it like her mother, or even herself. Today, Caroline made it extra special, for the special day. She’d never made it in this fashion before, but with all she had realized as of late, she figured it was necessary. As some things sometimes were.

Just as she was finishing up, she went over to the table and set the place mats, then the napkins, then the forks and spoons, splayed out in the manner her mother had taught her. Her mother had many sets of rules that she followed, and Caroline saw it fit to learn every single one. After setting the table, she checked up on the stroganoff, simmering in the pan. The scent was different than usual, as she had expected it to be with the new modifications to the recipe, but she knew it would make for a wonderfully indelible supper experience for her husband; the one he deserved for all he’d done.

Then she craned her neck to view the envelope, stuck to the fridge with a magnet. One of her anniversary gifts to John. She could hardly wait any longer to give it to him.

The knock came to the door at a quarter past five. The table was all set, the supper was prepared, resting in the pan on the lowest setting so it would not get cold before John had a chance to enjoy it, and Caroline was all ready now, a glass of red wine in her hand. She had put on a lovely dress for the occasion—the one she had worn on their first date, a floral sundress. The one she knew he loved. She wanted it to be just as memorable for herself as it would be for her darling, lovely husband.

Caroline opened the door swiftly and greeted him, a hand placed delicately upon her hip. “Hello, darling,” she said. “Don’t you look handsome.”

John stood in the doorway, nearly reaching the top of the doorframe. He had one arm leaning against the frame and a pristine smile glued to his face, almost too perfect to be authentic.

“Hello, you,” he said. “You look just ravishing. It’s like coming home to my very own Natalie Wood.”

Caroline stitched a smile onto her glossed lips. “Oh, I’m sure,” she said. “Get in here, supper is ready for you.”

“You can say that again,” John told her. As Caroline turned to prepare the table, she watched John’s eyes linger on her dress.

John closed the door and crossed the room, heading into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge, then into the dining room. He lowered himself into his seat, popping the bottle open with ease, and sighing heavily.

“How was work, honey?” Caroline asked, bringing the pan of the stroganoff over. She poured a fair amount into John’s plate, then a smaller one into hers.

“It was something, as always,” John said. “They’re working me like a dog in there, and for what? I don’t see a raise in my future. At least, not any time soon.”

“Oh, well I’m sure they’ll come to their senses,” Caroline told him as she brought the pan back into the kitchen. She set it atop the stove. Then she eyed the envelope stuck to the fridge under a magnet.

We’ll get there, she told herself. Her mother had been a very patient woman; a trait it had taken her very long to master.

“Did you get rat poison at the store today?” John asked. “I saw another little bastard last night in the laundry room.”

“I sure did,” Caroline said, grabbing her wine. She took a sip. “All the pests will be taken care of soon enough. Everything will be just perfect now.”

John nodded and looked down at the plate, an odd expression plastered on his face. “Did you change the recipe, Carrie?” he asked, poking through it lazily with his fork. “It smells somewhat off. Are you sure you cooked it right?”

“Oh, I’m quite certain,” Caroline assured him. “Now, don’t you get started without me. Today is a very, very special day, my love. Some music? To set the mood, you think?”

John looked up, blinking. “Oh, sure. Yes.”

Caroline, still smiling, went over to the record player atop the table, over in the living area. She looked through the records. They’d collected so many by now, but it didn’t take her very long at all to find the one that she was looking for. She pulled out a record of The Platters and played it. The piano began, gentle and serene, and then the voice, silky as it floated through the air. She looked over at John, who was already staring at her.

“Are you ready now?” he asked.

Caroline nodded. “I sure am.”

She went to her seat beside him, watching him with her head resting on her hand, her elbow propped up. John looked at her for only a brief moment, then grabbed his fork, poking around his food. Caroline watched as he mixed it all around to his liking and got a big scoop of it onto his fork.

Then shoveled it into his mouth.

Caroline smiled. She sipped her wine.

John looked up at her as he chewed, then swallowed. “What?” he asked, his smile nervous.

Caroline shook her head dumbly. “I just want to know how I did, that’s all,” she said to him. “I made you one of your favorites. Is it how you hoped it would be?”

John paused, befuddled. “I suppose, yes,” he said slowly. “If you ask me, I think you could have done a little more with it. There’s something about it that just . . . well, I don’t quite know—perhaps some more salt was needed? Maybe the sauce was expired?”

“No.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t.”

John nodded slowly. “Alright.” He scooped up some more and tossed it into his mouth, glancing at her plate. “Aren’t you going to eat? Your food’s going to get cold.”

“Oh, I will, honey,” she said, waving his question away, as if it were just so very silly. “I just want to enjoy my time with you.”

John looked at her. “Is there something going on?” he asked, a nervous smile still upon his face. “Why are you acting strange?”

“I’m not acting strange, silly,” she told him, “It’s a special day, isn’t it? I only want to make you feel as special as you’ve made me feel lately.”

“Right. It is a special day, isn’t it? Very special, indeed.” He ate some more; chewed, then swallowed. Then he looked up at her and said, “I didn’t know you got a new dress.”

Caroline kept her smile, stitched onto her cheeks.

“I bought it just for you,” she said.

John let out a rough burp, a hand upon the center of his chest. “Was it expensive?” he asked, blinking hard. “I’d hope not.”

She shook her head. Her cheeks were warm.

“Good. If you’re going to make big purchases, you know you have to tell me beforehand.”

“Of course,” Caroline said, nodding very fluidly so as to show him she’d heard what he said. She knew he liked to be listened to.

The song continued to play until the record ended. Once the silence came, Caroline stood from the table and went to flip the record. The music resumed, filling the home. She turned it down only a little and turned to face him.

“Do you know how much I love you, Johnny?” she asked.

He looked up at her, mid-bite. A smile flourished on his face. “I’m not sure I do. Would you care to enlighten me?”

She took small steps across the room, inching towards him. “I have loved you more than I’ve loved anybody in my life,” Caroline began, stepping back into the dining room. “For so long, I dreamt of being loved by somebody like you. Someone thoughtful, kind, and so loving.” She smiled, looking away. “And so generous, too.”

John’s face looked warm, his smile sly and restrained.

Caroline approached the table, looming over John. “And for so long, I almost thought that I was unworthy of a love like yours,” she said. He gazed up at her, reaching for her hand. She let him take it. “I really never thought that I would find somebody as wonderful as you, Johnny. But I dreamt of it. I dreamt of it nearly every night, my whole life. And when I finally found you . . . God, I just knew I would never let you go, not as long as I loved you. Not as long as you loved me. And you told me you would always love me, didn’t you, Johnny? It was in your vows, was it not?”

“It sure was,” John said, bringing her hand to his lips, placing a kiss along her knuckles. Caroline gave him a pretty smile.

The feeling gave her a revolting shiver. Like insects crawling all over her skin. But she smiled, setting her glass onto the table.

“Johnny?” Her voice was soft, like a coo.

“Yes?”

“How much do you love me?”

He looked up at her, making his eyes slim and sharp, in the charming movie star manner she knew that he was aware she liked in the past. The sight of it made her stomach churn.

“More than Heaven and Earth,” John said.

A soft chuckle slipped through Caroline’s lips.

“Is that so?” she asked. He nodded.

Caroline nodded too and retracted her hand from his. She felt her skin crawling where he’d kissed, but she paid it no mind. Instead, she went over into the kitchen, feeling his eyes on her as she walked, and grabbed the envelope from the fridge. Then went back into the dining room, sitting beside him.

“Don’t let your food get cold,” Caroline told him, reaching for her wine. She sipped it. Enjoyed the taste. Her mother had liked red, which meant Caroline eventually did too.

John shoved another spoonful of beef into his mouth. “What have you got there?” he asked, moving his fork through his food. He was nearly done by now, Caroline noticed, only a few bites left. John wiped his brow and his face was a little flushed. He burped again, rubbing his stomach and sternum.

“Oh, something for you,” she said; “for our special day.”

“Is it? Well, can I see it?”

“When you’re done eating,” Caroline told him.

He took another bite, but there was something off in his face. His nose scrunched and he clutched at his stomach. “You know . . . Carrie, honey, I think . . . I think I’m alright for now. I think there might be something wro—”

“You don’t like it?” she asked, finally dropping her smile.

“No, it’s not that,” he started, “it’s just—”

“I made it for you,” Caroline told him, making her voice just a tad whiny, almost disappointed. “Not many couples get to celebrate five years, darling. This is a big day for us.”

John looked at her, blinking. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, of course—I really am so lucky to have you, honey, it’s just—”

“Then finish it.”

He sighed, rubbing his stomach, but he shoveled another bite into his mouth. He chewed. Swallowed. Shoveled another. Chewed again, swallowed. His face was turning pale now, his eyes dark. John took his final bite, swallowing hard. Then he took a breath, deep and long, his hand resting on his stomach. His face was tense.

Caroline smiled again. “There you go,” she said. “You’ve just been working so hard, my love. I want you to be well fed. I want you to get what you deserve on our special day.” She sighed, placing her hands, with the envelope, on the table between them. “Lord knows how tiring it must be.”

John winced. His pace was so pale, he looked like he had the flu. “What do you mean, Carrie?”

“Well, I mean sleeping with other women, of course.”

It didn’t seem possible for John’s face to pale any further than it already was, and yet that was exactly what it did. “Carrie, what in God’s name are you talking about?” he asked. He seemed struck by a wave of pain, clutching his stomach tightly. “Honey, please, I really think something is wrong with m—”

Caroline slid the envelope in front of him and said, “I know.”

John stared at it, then looked up at her.

She was no longer smiling.

He swallowed, sweating, his face pale, and took the envelope weakly in between his fingers of one hand, while his other remained clutching his gut. He managed to carefully tear it open, sliding out the contents. A dozen square papers slipped out. They spread out onto the supper table. He looked over them.

He saw. His eyes widened.

“Darling,” he began, “how did you . . . I swear, I . . .”

Caroline stared at him, waiting for him to finish. Perhaps he had been waiting for her to interject, to explain how she had gotten these photos. But she had nothing to say to him right this second. Not until he had a chance to plead his miserable case. To say that he never meant it, that he never wanted to hurt her. Maybe even that he didn’t love her anymore—that he hadn’t loved her for a long time. She didn’t much care. Her hands sat interlaced on the table, her eyes hard on him, her face blank.

John cleared his throat, staring at her. He opened his mouth to speak, as if there was anything he could say—but he didn’t.

He cleared his throat again.

And then again. He looked quite confused. Then—the realization spread across his face like wildfire. His hands went to his throat.

He began to cough, to wheeze. His face burned bright red.

“Nothing to say?” Caroline asked, but she just sighed. “Just as well. Rats can’t speak, now, can they?”

John inhaled, but the sound was weak, like a broken squeaky toy filled with decades of dust. He tried again, and again, gasping for air, and receiving none. His hands tightened as if he were strangling himself. His eyes bulged in their sockets, ready to pop like pimples, red and straining, as he stood from the table. He reached for stability. He swiped over what lay on the table—the dozens of photos of him at various houses that weren’t their own—and stumbled against the chair, tripping over it and crashing to the ground, bringing the chair down with him. He fell upon it and it broke in nearly half.

Caroline watched him desperately gasp for air he’d never find. It would continue to elude him. His face swelled purple, his eyes bulging like ripe tomatoes. One hand clutched at his stomach—and the other reached out for her.

She stood and knelt beside him, his body sprawled out across the floor. His legs twitched and his arms shook. Tears filled his eyes. His mouth sat open like a fish out of water, but no words came out. Caroline looked down at him.

Then she playfully swatted away his hand.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she told him; “you didn’t even know it was our anniversary, did you? You silly thing.” She gave him a smile, but this one was lifeless, purely instinctual. “No, you were too busy being so very generous with whatever lady you were off with.”

John choked. Red foam began to spill from his mouth.

“I want you to know that I don’t hate you,” Caroline said. She shook her head. “No, I don’t hate you. You don’t deserve my hatred. Because then that would mean you’re worth something.”

John looked up at her. He heard her.

The choking diminished, fading into strained, husky attempts at breath. His eyes turned into blank marbles of nothing.

Then his body stilled, relaxing against the floor.

Caroline sat there for a moment. She tilted her head, looking down at his body. The eyes, glassy and empty, gazed up at the ceiling. The mouth sat barely open. Reddish foam dripped down his cheek. It was getting all over the floor, she noticed. As long as it didn’t soak into the carpet, she didn’t mind. She would clean it later.

She stood and sat at the table, then grabbed a fork, scooped up some of the stroganoff, and sniffed it. Caroline touched it with the tip of her tongue—and pulled away, repulsed, and set down the fork. She spat onto the plate, grimacing and reaching for her wine to wash out the taste.

She hadn’t used nearly enough salt.