A whistle on the wind
Dark clouds rode in angry formation on the crisp afternoon breeze. The ambient humidity warned Alfie that rain or even snow was on the cards. The stiff latch on the garden gate diverted his attention away from the weather.
“Damn thing!”
“Is that you, dear?” Martha’s singsong voice drifted over.
His brain conjured a sarcastic response, because, after all, who else would have the key for the gate, but he supplied the necessary, “it is, yes.”
Alfie sighed, mightily, when he spied Martha hanging over the wall, chatting and giggling with Sarah, their neighbor. Alfie felt the weight of the gray day dampen his spirits. He couldn’t stand Sarah; she was such a gossip.
“Martha, I’m home as you can see. Why don’t you come inside with me and have some tea?” His attempt to extricate his wife from Sarah’s clutches fell on deaf ears.
“You go ahead, honey. I’m just catching up with Sarah.”
Alfie watched as his wife turned her attention back to the chat. Sarah seemed so much more robust than his timid Martha; she was cutting down the vines that crowded the wall with a strong, sure hand while she chatted; animated features, registering all the tidbits she shared. Martha wasn’t wearing her usual checkered apron. Weirdly, she seemed somewhat overdressed for an afternoon chat across the fence. He sighed again and muttered under his breath, “that woman will be the death of your brain cells. You’re so annoyingly frivolous, Martha. You know?”
He went inside and put the kettle on to boil.
“She hasn’t even bothered to defrost the lasagna. Geez! She must’ve been out there for most of the afternoon.” Alfie threw his accusation at the fridge in disgust. “Damn woman,” he added just for good measure.
He pulled the frozen dish out of the freezer and shoved it into the microwave to defrost.
He rubbed his hands together against the cold. Then crossed the shiny kitchen floor to the open plan living area to start a fire in the grate.
“What the hell is going on?” He turned on his heels and headed for the kitchen door that led back into the garden; to his wife.
“Silly woman,” he muttered to himself on the way, “she’s such an airhead. I really don’t know where I’ve found the strength to stay with her all these years.”
“Matha, why didn’t you clean out the fireplace? Why? Dammit, you know how cold it is. You know how hard I work to put food on your table, to put firewood in the damn basket and to pay for your lifestyle of idle chatter. Why, Martha?”
But the ice cold air outside simply blew a whistle back at him. Martha was not at her station and Sarah was nowhere in sight.
At first he looked for her. His face, a picture, echoing his hard-done-by heart. He called her name and swept the entire property.
“Why would she hide from me?” he begged the inclement sky for an answer.
But there was no answer.
Eventually, he stepped back into the kitchen. The unheeded kettle had over-boiled a puddle onto the floor. He narrowly missed the water, his mind distracted by the incongruent mystery, that was his wife.
He pulled his mobile from the wall socket where he’d left it to charge.
He dialed his wife’s cell. It went straight to voicemail.
Then he keyed Sarah’s cell number.
“Sarah, do you know where Martha is? She was with you moments ago and now I can’t find her anywhere. She didn’t put dinner in the oven or a fire in the grate. What’s going on?”
When Sarah disconnected without uttering a word, a dawning realization muddled its way into Alfie’s brain. He dropped the phone and rushed to the bedroom. He threw open the closet.
“Her clothes…”
He pulled open the hallway closet.
“The luggage…”
Then his blood began to boil.
He tumbled into the study and ripped open the drawers.
“The credit cards…”
He wanted to gag. Strangely, he felt as if he wanted to cry.
Alfie tried to reach his wife intermittently throughout the night and into the morning.
Dog tired and without his breakfast, Alfie made his way to the train station. He had to pitch up for work despite his exhaustion. Just before he boarded, he spied Sarah in the queue behind him. She was chatting to a young woman who seemed to be hanging on her every word. When she saw him looking at her, she pointed her chin in his direction and took the woman’s arm in hers in a conspiratorial manner. Her jibe floated, softly towards him against the sounds of the platform.
“The scuttlebutt is that she left him. She’s been investing on the stock exchange for years and she hit a major financial windfall a few weeks back. No more delicious home cooked lasagna for him.”