Maxine gets revenge.
Image by cliff1066™ via Flickr
‘Emily stabbed her husband through the heart. She smiled wanly as he stood motionless, looking with astonishment, first at the knife in his chest then at her. He collapsed to the…’
“Mrs. Spitsberger! I quit!” Rosie Will, the housekeeper, came storming into the den.
Maxine Spitsberger flipped her laptop shut with a speed that confessed to her guilt. She had been writing one of those dreadful murder stories again.
“What happened, Rosie?” Maxine asked.
“I walk back by your son’s room. Snake cage open. I tol’ you I no work with snake running around house. Goodbye.”
“Wait, Rosie! I’ll find him.” Maxine spoke to the slamming door.
She didn’t blame Rosie. The six-foot python scared her a little, too. She couldn’t believe that her husband bought it for their eight-year-old, River, who only loved the animal only for its shock value. His mother was left with most of the burden of caring for it.
Maxine took a sip of her coffee. It was seven o’clock, she should wake up her husband, Simon, and fix his breakfast. He had a ten o’clock flight today.
“Just a few minutes more,” she told herself and opened the laptop. She frowned at the introduction, deleted it and began again.
‘“The snake! It’s choking me. Please…”
Emily smiled wanly at her husband’s outstretched hand. The fingers were turning blue.
“Sorry darling but you insisted that the children have exotic pets. I wanted to get them a dog.”‘
“Ha! That’s awful. Max, you should take up golf. Writing isn’t the hobby for you.”
Maxine hadn’t heard her husband come into the room. She flipped the laptop shut again and twisted in her seat to face him.
“The people on Triond seem to like it.”
“Oh that’s right, twenty-seventh ranked author.” Simon was using his best sneery voice. “Isn’t that special.”
Simon Berger was a handsome man in a “Cary Grant” sort of way. He had the looks and the charm; all he lacked was the decency and compassion.
When the young actor first met Maxine, she was a copy writer for a publicity firm. After their marriage, she worked through two difficult pregnancies as his personal assistant. As his star slowly rose both on Broadway and in the movies, her husband developed the habit of blaming her for every failure and crediting himself for each success.
Maxine changed the subject. “Rosie just quit because of Ralph. I suspect he’s behind the drier again. Could you dig him out for me?”
“Sorry, I’ve got some phone calls to make before I go. Did you post some copy on the internet about my date with England Summers?”
“I just put out an announcement that you were taking her to the Academy Awards tonight. The paparazzi will be watching for you. They’ll take over for me, now. If you win Best Supporting Actor tonight, we’ll never have to worry about you not getting enough publicity.”
Maxine sounded businesslike but inside she was trembling with rage and humiliation. She should be wearing a gown and leaning on her husband’s arm tonight.
When she was a child, a next-door neighbor ironed her husband’s shirts before he went out on dates with younger women. Back then Maxine thought she was the most pathetic woman on earth. Now she, Maxine, publicized Simon’s infidelities for the sake of his career.
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