After dropping his mistress from the car, Butcher bid her a tender farewell and drove home. He paused for a moment outside his door, mentally rehearsing what he would say to his wife. Climbing the stairs, he unlocked the door.
“Hello,” said Butcher. “Vera, are you home?”
“I am,” came his wife’s indifferent reply. “Hello. Should I fry the cutlets?”
Butcher vowed to be direct—firm, decisive, manly! He would end this double life now, while his mistress’s kisses still lingered on his lips, before the mundane swamp of routine dragged him under again.
“Vera,” Butcher cleared his throat. “I’ve come to tell you… we must part ways.”
Vera replied with unshakable calm. It took a great deal to ruffle her. Once, Butcher had even teased her for it, calling her “Vera the Ice Queen.”
“You mean what?” Vera asked from the kitchen doorway. “I shouldn’t fry the cutlets?”
“That’s up to you,” he said. “Fry them if you like, don’t if you don’t. I’m leaving for another woman.”
Most wives would fly at their husbands with a frying pan or unleash a furious scene. But Vera was not like most wives.
“Oh, what a to-do,” she remarked. “Did you fetch my boots from the cobbler?”
“No,” Butcher faltered. “If it matters that much, I’ll go straight there and get them!”
“Good grief…” Vera muttered. “That’s just like you, Butcher. Send a fool for boots, and he’ll bring back the old pair.”
Butcher felt aggrieved. This discussion of ending their marriage wasn’t going as planned. Where was the emotion, the passion, the fiery accusations? But what else could he expect from a wife nicknamed Vera the Ice Queen?
“Vera, I don’t think you’re listening!” he insisted. “I’m declaring officially that I’m leaving you for another woman, and all you care about are boots!”
“Quite right,” Vera replied. “Unlike me, you can go wherever you please. Your boots aren’t at the cobbler’s. Why not walk away?”
They had lived together for years, yet Butcher still couldn’t tell when Vera was joking and when she was serious. He’d been drawn to her steady temper, her calm, her quiet ways—not to mention her practicality and her pleasing figure.
Vera had been as dependable, faithful, and cold as a ship’s anchor. But now Butcher loved another—passionately, sinfully, delightfully! It was time to spell things out and cast his line toward a new life.
“So, Vera,” he said with solemnity, sorrow, and regret, “I’m grateful for everything, but I’m leaving because I love another woman. I don’t love you.”
“Well, fancy that,” Vera said dryly. “He doesn’t love me, the poor sod. My mother loved the neighbor. My father loved dominoes and gin. And look how perfectly I turned out.”
Arguing with Vera was futile. Every word of hers carried weight. His earlier fervor had evaporated—there was no fight left in him.
“Vera, you truly are wonderful,” Butcher said weakly. “But I love another. Passionately, sinfully, delightfully. And I mean to leave. Do you understand?”
“Another—who?” his wife asked. “Not Natalie Bramble, surely?”
Butcher recoiled. A year ago, he’d had a fling with Natalie, but he never imagined Vera knew her!
“How do you even—” he began, then stopped. “Never mind. No, Vera, it’s not Bramble.”
Vera yawned.
“Then perhaps it’s Lillian Bullock? Gotten tangled up with her?”
A chill ran down Butcher’s spine. Bullock had also been a mistress, but that was in the past. If Vera knew—why had she stayed silent? Of course—she was flint, impossible to pry open.
“Wrong again,” he said. “Not Bullock or Bramble. This is someone else, a magnificent woman, the pinnacle of my dreams. I can’t live without her, and I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me.”
“So it’s Maya,” Vera mused. “Oh, Butcher… you cracked old fool. The worst-kept secret in town. The peak of your dreams is Maya Valentine Goose. Thirty-five, one child, two abortions… Am I close?”
Butcher clutched his head. A direct hit! He’d been entangled with Maya Goose.
“But how?” he stammered. “Who told you? Were you spying on me?”
“Elementary, Butcher,” Vera said. “Dear boy, I’ve been a gynecologist for years. I’ve examined every woman in this blasted town, while you’ve only managed a fraction. One glance was enough to know you’d been there, you pea-brained lout.”
Butcher steeled himself.
“Suppose you’re right!” he declared. “So what if it’s Goose? It changes nothing—I’m leaving.”
“You’re a fool, Butcher,” Vera sighed. “You might’ve asked me first! There’s nothing special about Goose, anatomically speaking—just another woman. Seen her medical records, have you?”
“N-no,” he admitted.
“Exactly. First—go and scrub yourself raw. Second—I’ll ring Dr. Simmons to fit you in at the clinic tomorrow,” Vera said. “Then we’ll talk. Imagine the shame—a gynecologist’s husband can’t even pick a clean mistress!”
“But what should I do?” Butcher whined.
“I’m frying the cutlets,” Vera said. “You wash up and do as you please. If you want a dream woman without the clap, just ask. I’ll recommend someone decent.”
