Carefully she formed the first words.

The paper flew off the Formica countertop and into the trashcan. Those words couldn't express fifty years. They couldn't even express fifty seconds.

She began the salutation again. Her handwriting looked foreign as if she was trying to be someone else. If a handwriting analyst looked at her cursive, what would they find? Maybe she was a criminal disguised in frumpy housecoats or maybe she was just an ordinary woman who had been married fifty plus years. Was there a profile for that?

That was better. She tried to write in big criminal mastermind strokes. It still came out a schoolmarm writing exercise with cobwebs of old lady words.

Write like a criminal, Martha. She told herself. Harold would never believe her if she didn’t write forcefully.

That piece of paper followed the first into the trash. The problem wasn't the handwriting. It was her bland ordinary words. Even her name was ordinary: Martha. The biblical Martha got to cook and clean up. For fifty years she served Harold on plastic divided dishes. The food couldn't even touch. Nothing could touch in Harold’s day either. Morning was for breakfast and golf. In the afternoon, he took a nap and complained about his golf score. The evenings were for television and ear shattering snoring. She doubted that Martha had to use melamine divided plates or listen to those sounds.

She wished her name were Hayley or Mackenzie like a romance novel heroine. The women in those three-for-a-dollar romance novels were expressive, full of passion, and didn't serve anyone.

Watch out. In her best seductive voice, she threatened the dishwasher. . I am man-killer, Hayley Mackenzie. I will seduce your husband and then kill him.

Standing in the checkout line, she borrowed celebrity lives. She married Harold at seventeen, and didn't even date anyone else. For those fifteen minutes in line, she was a red-haired nymphet, flitting from one bedroom-eyed man to the next.

In her tabloid dreams, even criminals got interviewed, their spoken words as big as their crimes.

The criminals said three words and stirred up a nation.

Harold, I am calling from jail. This is my one phone call. Please come and post my bail. She imagined his reaction as she sat defiantly in her jailbird-striped uniform. Those black and white uniforms appealed to Martha. Not having to fix meals or clean sounded good too. She made faces at bank and grocery store security cameras just to see if she might get carted off to jail. On television, she saw prisoners eating off of divided plastic plates. She decided romance heroine was a much better role for her.

He carried her up the stairs. They were both breathless with desire. Romance novels had such strong words. Those one-dimensional characters went places. She couldn't have stairs because Harold's mother didn't like stairs. That woman had been dead for twenty years and still no staircase. She’d wanted to sweep down a southern sprawled-out staircase with all eyes upon her. His eyes would be black with desire as he half-carried, half-dragged her to a sumptuous bedroom lined with silk and lavender. He'd discover who she was and sell her fake butter like on the commercials. She would wake up with Harold, who struggled up their little two-staired porch. Harold had watery blue eyes. He couldn't sell even sell butter. In all of their married life, he hadn't even bought butter.

Dear Harold:

She began once more. If she couldn't write with a criminal hand, then maybe perfect block letters would work. Her pen imitated a typewriter. The letters marched in little lines that Harold probably couldn't read.

Put on your glasses, Harold. She forcefully said before beginning her literary attack again.

At least her last letter to Harold should set his mind at ease. She smiled as she continued.

Sentimental words would never do. Big black letters must prevail. One tear fell on the page blurring the last sentence. She continued anyway.

That last sentence sounded mean but she left it. She wanted stairs and she wanted him to know.

They always ended their letters that way. I do miss you. When he was gone for years during the war, he wrote it. When she went on lady's retreats, she wrote it. It was the perfect ending.

Her signature was bold. No one seeing it would see a runaway old lady with two peanut butter sandwiches and a stark condominium.

She left the note on the mantle next to family pictures and ribbon-tied packets of letters. Closing the door gently behind her, she adjusted her pleats and ran her hand over her hair. Harold's funeral began at 10:00 and she mustn't be late. Harold didn't like it when she was late.

Copyright ©1999 Any Cipolla. All Rights Reserved.