“That dress is kinda tight.”
Greg watched as Tasha, his wife of nine years, studied herself in the full-length mirror. His tone was sour, his expression sullen.
Tasha, on the other hand, was almost giddy, as she turned this way and that, seeing how her new outfit accentuated her svelte, curvy figure, the result of over a year of strict dieting and exercise. She’d been taking tucks in her clothing, bigger and bigger ones, and bought several loose, a-line dresses to wear while the fat melted away. She’d waited until her goal of eighty-five pounds had been reached before ordering something especially revealing. It had arrived today, just in time for an office party being held in honor of a co-worker’s promotion.
What she couldn’t understand was why Greg wasn’t excited about her accomplishment, why he seemed concerned that she was depriving herself. “Eat up, honey,” he’d coached frequently as she served herself smaller portions of their dinner fare. “I love you just the way you are.” Now that she thought about it, hadn’t he lavished her with gifts of candy and encouraged her to not deny herself whatever food she craved? This, as her weight increased with the passing years as diet after short-lived diet failed.
“Such a pretty face,” was the mantra she’d overheard all her life, the presumed unspoken conclusion, “if she just wasn’t so fat.” The only child of a busy couple who worked long hours and had no time to cook, she spent afternoons alone once she outgrew the need for daycare, with the TV for company and freedom to consume as many cookies and peanut butter sandwiches as she needed to ease her loneliness. The fast food her parents served for their evening meals was simply dessert.
A mere five-foot-two, she was a size eighteen by the time she bought a dress for senior prom. No date, of course; she attended with the other high school outcast, Sarah Jean Milstone, tall and physically awkward with thick glasses and protruding front teeth. The two became best friends—perhaps because of their perceived imperfections—and found comfort in each other. Sarah Jean moved away with her family right after graduation, and they never saw each other again. Tasha often wondered how her friend had fared in such a scrutinizing world.
She also wondered at her good fortune when, just over a decade ago, she met Gregory Schmidt, a moderately handsome older man who invited her to dinner, movies, and concerts, and introduced romance to her dateless, loveless life. She knew everyone at work was surprised when she appeared sporting the diamond on her fourth finger, certain of airborne questions in hushed tones: “How’d she manage that?” and “Who would have thought?”
They married at City Hall, no frills or fanfare, not even a reception afterward. Her parents were deceased by then, as were Greg’s, and her friends were only co-workers she didn’t know well at the time. Greg’s world seemed to consist mostly of her and a few mere acquaintances at his company, none of whom he entertained or visited.
Fortunately, her love for Greg was genuine, despite her notion that no one else would want her. He’d continued to be romantic, a wine and flowers kind of guy, their love-making frequent and enjoyable.
It was a bout of flu that had activated the weight-loss venture that finally stuck. Sick for almost a week, able to consume only an occasional dish of chicken soup and toward the end a partial piece of toast, she dressed for the first time in six days and found herself delighted by the gap between her waist and waistband. It was as though that space, that looseness that she had longed for, magically curbed her appetite. Her attention shifted from what dessert would follow dinner each day to how many inches she would discover missing from her body.
Now, as Greg stood behind her in the doorway, she felt his disapproving stare. In all their years together, he’d never shown disdain for anything she’d done. “Where to?” he now inquired with a worried tone.
“Some of us are meeting at Manny’s for drinks to celebrate Janice’s promotion. I told you yesterday,” she reminded him, tugging on her tight skirt and smoothing it with her fingers. “You just forgot.”
“I could drive you.”
“That’s okay,” she said, checking her phone. “I’ve called an Uber.”
Greg seemed reluctant to move, leaning toward her as she squeezed by him in the doorway, brow wrinkled, visibly drawing in air through his nose. “That a new perfume?”
“I got it at Victoria’s Secret. Smells good, huh?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, “really great.”
“Don’t wait up,” she said, tossing him a wave as she nearly ran toward the waiting car, feeling guilty now but determined to not let his apparent unhappiness ruin her fun.
She’d never in life made a grand entrance, and she loved it. Her co-workers were gathered around the bar at Manny’s, partially consumed cocktails and bottles of beer already in front of them. The chorus of whistles made her giddy all over again.
“We’ve started without you,” shouted one of the men, “what’ll you have?”
“Sit here,” piped Jesse, a young newcomer, who’d been overly friendly at the office and was now feeling his booze. He looked her up and down as he patted an empty bar stool and, while the grin on his face made her uncomfortable, she welcomed it, relished it. She’d seen other women being lusted after and wished it was she. Well, now it was, and it was a discomfort, she decided, that she could handle.
Whether Greg could handle it was another matter.
She had been there about an hour before the phone rang. She knew as she searched her purse for the device that it would be him. She predicted the conversation:
“How’s the party?”
“Fun. Janice is really happy.”
Then he’d feign concern for her. “It’s kinda late, honey—aren’t you tired?” when what he really wanted was for her to come home—for his benefit, not hers.
She was right, nearly word-for-word, but with an added annoyance.
“You’re not drinking too much, are you?” his tone like a parent issuing a gentle reprimand—You didn’t eat all those cookies so close to supper? She bristled; her resentment raised a notch with his suggestion that she let him call her an Uber—right now—he had an important meeting tomorrow and had to get to sleep.
“Just go to bed.” It was the angriest retort she could remember in all their years of marriage. “I can call my own Uber.”
“You just do that,” he snapped, before the line went dead.
Her insolence and guilt played tag the rest of the evening, until just before midnight, when the crowd began to thin and Henry, a long-time co-worker, offered her a ride home.
She was unsteady from three drinks, two more than her usual limit, but not too blotto to notice that Henry, who was her height, walked so close to her in the parking lot, she could feel his breath on her neck. His hand, which he’d held firmly under her elbow as he led her toward his car, traveled across her shoulder into a half-embrace, then downward onto her waist as he opened the passenger side door. She shot him a curious look before she dropped into the seat and was suddenly bothered by what she perceived as a lusty grin, much like Jesse’s when she first arrived at the bar. Henry was clearly drunk—too drunk to drive.
She took out her phone as he made his way around the front of the car and climbed in beside her. Squinting at the device in the dark, she searched for Uber’s number. “I don’t want to put you out,” she said with a touch of panic, but by that time, he’d started the motor and was backing out.
“No, no, this is better than riding with some cabbie,” he slurred. She noticed that he hadn’t asked her address and was headed in a totally different direction.
“I live on Barton Road,” she blurted anxiously.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get there.” His tone was different now, flat, angry. He was going too fast, even for a sober driver, and while he handled the wheel with his left hand, his right was suddenly on her knee.
Henry was a loner whose wardrobe cried out thrift store, “no chick magnet,” according to one gossipy secretary. Tasha had always gone out of her way to be friendly toward him, his social awkwardness and lack of sex appeal evoking sympathy. She remembered all those years of being the fat girl, the one not invited to the prom, the lonely kid eating peanut butter sandwiches to M*A*S*H reruns and The Match Game. She now questioned all that empathy, as he pulled onto a side road and turned off the motor.
“Com’ere,” he snarled, reaching for her and looking more drunk than ever, so much so that she felt she could put up an effective fight. She’d been exercising with dumbbells during her weight-loss journey and felt pretty strong.
She overestimated her strength or underestimated his, she didn’t know which, only that she was on the seat on her back underneath him, her head pushed against the door and his arm across her neck, making it difficult to breathe. He first cooed sweet talk as he pulled at her underwear, then switched to ugly name-calling when she continued to resist. Had he not bumped his head on the inside of the door as she made one huge thrust to push him off, he would certainly have had his way with her. Whether it was the booze or the crack of his head, his body went limp, dead weight on top of her, his breathing deep, his drool wetting the side of her face.
Getting the door open and extricating herself were gargantuan tasks. Once outside she had no idea where she was or how to describe it to Greg—yes, she would definitely call Greg—all she could think of was hearing his voice. He’d know what to do, come and get her, alert the police if he thought they should report the attack.
She was barely able to punch in the numbers, her hands shaking and tears blocking her vision. “Answer, please answer.” He didn’t. He was angry. And he had that important meeting in the morning. She could only hope he’d forgive her, frightened enough to not care that he’d say, “You should have let me drive you.” She choked out a message to his voicemail as she ran toward the main road up ahead, only a hundred feet or so.
Behind her a speeding car approached. Too blinded by the headlights to realize who it was, she waved her hands in the air for the driver to stop—surely he would stop—and only at the last second did relief turn to horror at the sight of the familiar face behind the wheel, and just one second later the impact, as her phone went airborne into the brush and she lay motionless on the shoulder.
Her last word was a feeble “help” as Henry sped away.
Morning brought heavy sunlight beaming through the blinds onto the undisturbed side of the bed, where Greg had expected to see Tasha, hungover perhaps from her night out but willing to hear his concerns about her transformation. He would bare his soul, how he’d loved her the way she was and now feared losing her. Surely, based on their long, loving relationship, she would understand.
The emptiness prompted him to grab his phone—to call who? The office? It was Saturday. The police? And tell them what? My wife went out drinking and didn’t come home?
The blinking light gave him a second of relief, a call from Tasha’s phone—time received 1:03 a.m. No doubt she would explain why she wasn’t there: she had one too many and went home with a friend, Janice perhaps, the only co-worker close enough for such a possibility. He’d listen to her message first, before jumping to any horrid conclusions.
She was gasping.
“Greg, I’m in trouble. I’m so sorry. I’m, uh, out somewhere, I don’t know exactly… a dirt road…this guy at work, um, he attacked me. I know I shouldn’t have gotten into the car with him, but he said he’d take me home. I’m scared out here, it’s so dark…oh, no, you must be asleep. Here comes a car, I’ll flag it down. Please don’t be mad at me. I wish I’d invited you to the party. I love you, Gregory.”
[Image Credit : Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash]
Tamara Shaffer’s short stories and articles have appeared in newspapers and literary journals—Phoebe, Serving House, Six Hens, The Pedestal—and Woman’s World magazine. She authored Murder Gone Cold, a book about the 1957 unsolved murders of two sisters in Chicago (2006). She is retired and lives in Chicago.
