A MARITAL TRAGEDY

A Marital Tragedy

When in the army I met a fellow from Appalachia with one of those slow drawls that can both infuriate and fascinate the northern listener. He explained how the passion of newlyweds superseded almost every other consideration; the sexing was sometimes more frequent than eating. “If you put a pebble in a large jar every time they do it,” he told me, the jar would be filled. At the end of the first year, take a pebble out on every occasion and you won't empty the jar by the end of five years. We laughed. This story is about Clarabelle-Sue Smith.

Born on the family farm to hard working folk, they lived too far away from any town to easily get there. It took a family outing, but her hard working parents never had outings so they never went so did not Clarabelle. Her father in particular, in addition to his devotion to work also was devoted to God, a being whom he believed frowned of human frivolity. There was little laughter in Clara's life and no radio or television. Well, yes a radio, but turned on only for the farm report; Clara had little idea of the outside world.

The school bus picked her up, deposited her at school and later committed the same feat in reverse at the end of the day. The schoolchildren barely knew her and her awareness of her ignorance kept her separate from them. She grew into a comely young woman and in her teens became aware of sensations located in unmentionable parts of her body. While somewhat slow in many ways, she understood that those sensations had something to do with pleasure and in some way had to do with boys. She wandered the hallways and visited classrooms but her hormones affected her brain so it could not bring itself to think clearly. Her few girl friends clearly had solved the problem but too timid, she could not ask.

It so happened that one day the athletic department gave out free tickets to a basketball game. The team was so bad it was the only way they could somewhat fill the arena. Clara waited with dull interest until the team ran onto the court ... and she saw Zeke. Six ft 1 inch tall and muscular and fell instantly in love. The Italians call it The Thunderbolt and it crashed into her brain and blew her mind. He was only a middling player on a mediocre team but he was the man for her and she went after him. Other girls, as was their wont, went after him and the other players, but none with the zeal that Clara poured into getting Zeke for her own.

She never thought about what would happen, what it meant if she got him. What went on between men and women was only a vague blur. She knew about bulls and cows on the farm but had not the capacity to translate such knowledge into a reasonable facsimile of what happened between men and women. But, she wanted him and she could figure it out later.

Though he had been flirted many times, Zeke had never had a girl so enamored of him. Still, he was slow in responding until she removed her bra and he got the idea. It happened, or, more accurately, he made it happen. She liked the two minutes of foreplay but the culmination was a resounding failure as far as pleasure for her, but she became pregnant and got her man. Poor Zeke cursed his fate but in the small town, Drudgeville, where they lived, the young men had to pay the piper and since he had piped her, a wedding ceremony was quickly arranged. Clara's mother consoled her. “Don't worry, dear, you'll probably like it in a few years.”

Her mother need not have worried. They piped away and she became an enthusiast, only reluctantly ceasing such activities because of the birth of their child, a girl. Zeke played basketball at a local community college but quickly was relegated to the bench. A semi-star in high school, he was a dud in tougher competition. They moved back to Drudgeville where he got a job at a body shop scraping rust off damaged cars. He was promised a promotion to real bodywork but that never happened.

So, with the child born and him working, she had nothing to do but care for the child and cajole him into bed. A full time job and sex twice a day, morning and evening and six times over the weekend, began to wear on him and in spite of her eager stimulation, he would fall asleep. This was not Clara's plan for a good life. She had found pleasure, more pleasure that she had imagined and would not give it up without a struggle. But, the struggle failed. Back off,” Zeke growled, “four times a week is enough, I need to rest.

It was then she decided he had to die. She would never break her marriage vows by finding another man to fill the gaps, her vows were sacrosanct. The solution was to kill him, but in such a way that suspicion could never finger her as the perpetrator. She thought of accidents, fake suicide, poison, knives and guns. She even thought of hiring an assassin but all the possibilities had weak points and she panicked at the thought she would have to spend the rest of her suddenly dreary life with only little of that glorious pleasure. But, she found a way. On a visit to the doctor, he was told he had gained too much weight and ate too much fried food. “It's fried food that will kill you in the long run.”

It took a few days for her to understand the significance of that warning. Fried food would kill him. Of course, that was it. He loved fried food and he would now get it, morning noon and night. Fried fish, fried chicken, chicken fried steak, fried zucchini, fried potatoes, hash brown potatoes, cottage fried potatoes, fried onion rings, fried Twinkies, fried shrimp and whatever else she could think to place before him. She understood it would take a few years, but at 21, she had plenty of time after his death for a fulfilled life.

He loved her newfound enthusiasm for cooking and he loved fried food. Every year the doctor warned him about weight, blood sugar cholesterol and heart attacks, but when Zeke expressed some concern she would place before him deep fried cantaloupe slices and he was doomed.

At twenty-three, she could see that he had only a few more years to live and rejoiced. His increased dehabilitation made sex almost impossible for him and his belly fat repulsed her but OK, she could wait. She made up for her loss with fantasies and self-gratification. All was well; the plan was working and she could wait.

Until he came home one day. He explained that he had spoken with twelve-year-old Tommy Jones, the youngest preacher in the county. The pre-adolescent had told him that eating meat and fish was a sin and that starting that day, they were vegetarians. She smashed in his skull with the frying pan.

She could not enjoy life without sexing

Its absence in life was perplexing

To her it was balm

Without it no calm

No sex was simply quite vexing