Changing his Wife

Changing His Wife

Changing His Wife
Copyright © 2013 by Hilton Hamann

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***

 He could not stand her bitching any more!
 It never stopped. From the moment she woke and pulled on her sour face, to the time she left for work, she had something to complain about. Mostly about him.
 The only respite for John Carlyle was when she was at work and he could sit at his desk picking at his computer keyboard, trying to build a fiction-writing career.
 When John first met his wife, Gay, she was just that. Not in a modern, lesbian way but rather the way the "gay" was used when his grandparents were young and the word meant "happy" and "cheerful." Now she was neither.
 Gay felt she carried the weight of her world on her shoulders and made sure everyone knew that.
 Her husband knew he shared some blame for the slow erosion of their once-happy relationship - he was not easy to live with but, where he withdrew and became taciturn, she bitched. And he couldn't stand it!
 The decline started years earlier when John's company retrenched him.
 Normally he could have expected to quickly find another job but that was the world had entered the worst recession since the Great Depression of the 1930s and it was the perfect, catastrophic, financial storm for John.
 His creditors wasted no time. Quickly they descended upon him, stripping his carcass of its assets. When done, he no longer owned a house or car and everything  saved for retirement was gone. he knew, renting even a tiny house in the city was no longer something they could afford and there was no option but to move to the country, where rental prices were still affordable and where they could live according to their means.
 After much searching, John signed a rental agreement on a run-down, small holding on the outskirts of a town that'd seen better times. The house was old and the roof leaked. The fields were unharrowed and overgrown but at least they could afford the monthly payments, it had promise and there was an option to one day buy it.
 For John, it was an opportunity to start over, unemcumbered by previous financial baggage. They could live like young, newly-weds once again. Restart their lives on a blank canvas, waiting to be painted just the way they wanted. It could be a whole new life they could design for themselves, and the prospect and possibilities excited him. He felt free for the first time in many years.
 He planned to plant crops, grow chickens and maybe keep a few cows. He believed it was an opportunity to become self-reliant and self-sufficient and was convinced, if he could make the land feed them, then the loss of his retirement savings was irrelevant.
 In addition, he was going to strive to create a career as a fiction writer.
 But Gay wasn't convinced. She hated leaving the city and worried constantly about what would happen when they were old. How would they feed themselves and pay their medical expenses? And her husband's fantasy of writing books and selling them on the Internet...well that was exactly what it was...a fantasy! How foolish he looked when he showed her his first quarterly sales report. $12.46 doesn't make you a professional writer!
 He was always like that - a dreamer without a practical bone in his body. Plans about the future and dreams were one thing but Gay wanted results... now! And so she hectored him whenever he presented an idea to her.
 "Yes, but...how will you market it? How are people going to get to know about it? How long before it makes any money?"
 She fired questions like a machine-gunner defending an outpost in enemy territory.
 John learned long ago there was no point in debating anything with Gay. Once her mind was set, nothing would change it.
 Her role, she believed, was to mold her husband and motivate him and she honestly believed, if she bitched enough, he would cave in and that would do it.
 But John dug in his heels this time. He'd abandoned his dreams too often before and, on more occasions than he cared to admit, her carping made him change direction. But not again! With nothing left to lose, he was no longer afraid and he focused on his wonderful new adventure and tried to shut out her complaining.
 Three months after moving to the country, Gay found a job in town and was appointed as the Mayor's personal assistant. The pay wasn't much but Gay got to rub shoulders with the mayor, the town's elders and prominent business people and it made her feel important.
 She immersed herself in her work and it soon consumed her and became the most important aspect of her life. Every day she seemed to push John deeper into the background.
 She worked on weekends, attended meetings at night and brought work home that she justified by telling John, "someone around has to do real work and bring in the money!"
 She absolutely loved her new-found status and she was busy - of that there could be no doubt - but she wore her busy-ness like a badge of honor. When asked how she was, her standard reply was, "busy!" It became her email signature and her identity.
 And she firmly felt, her time was more important than that of her slack-assed, dreamer husband. Errands or chores were, as a consequence, delegated to him.
 "You're at home every day," she indignantly exclaimed when one day he complained he had writing to do. "I'm the one around here who has to work!"
 And the bitching and nagging grew worse.
 Unhappiness and discontent oozed from her pores and even when she was happy, she was unhappy.
 She scolded him when he snored, scowled when he coughed, told him what he should eat and how much of it and hounded him to get more exercise.
 "I don't want to have to look after you and clean up your shit when you have a heart-attack and are stuck in a wheelchair," she said.

***

 One Saturday afternoon John decided to visit a nearby neighbor and they sat on the back verandah drinking beer.
 "Don't you sometimes wish you could change your wife?" Phil suddenly asked out of the blue.
 John smiled wryly. "I think she's beyond changing. She's too set in her ways."
 He took a sip of beer.
 "But if you mean changing her for someone young and nice, then I guess, yes I do."
 Phil lived alone. A few years ago his wife suddenly left him one night. Some say she was sick of rural life and fled to the city but, ever since, people noticed Phil was calmer and happier.
 "No, I mean change her into something useful like... for example ... a horse."
 John laughed.
 "Hell, yes! A horse would be good. It could pull that old plow on my property and get some crops planted."
 Of late, John had been thinking about farming, using the old, primitive methods of his forefathers. Maybe such a project could be turned into a book or television series, he thought.
 "Yes," he nodded, "a horse would definitely be useful... if only."
 "If you're sure, I may be able to help you," said Phil.
 John laughed. He figured Phil was a little drunk.
 "I'm serious," said Phil and John saw he was. "My wife didn't abandon me. I changed her into a dairy cow and she's since produced three fine calves. I can take you to her and show you."
 John was taken aback. Phil, was always so level-headed and sensible, yet, here he was, spouting insane nonsense. He wasn't sure how to respond.
 "Yeah, sure," he said weakly. "You're shittin' me."
 "No," said Phil, his voice even, "I'm not. I've never told anyone this before but I can see you need help. One of my great, great, great, grandmothers was burned at the stake for being a witch - which indeed she was. She compiled a book of spells that's been handed down through the generations. I now have it and I'll pass it on before I die.
 "There's been a family witch or wizard - I like to think of myself as a male witch - for almost five hundred years."
 John concluded his friend must have spent too much time in the hot sun and his crazy talk was the result of a mild case of sun-stroke. He decided to play it cool, humor Phil and get out of there as quickly as possible.
 "You don't believe me?" Phil cocked an eyebrow then fixed a piercing stare on John.
 "No!... No! Of course I do. It's just you took me by surprise, that's all." He was concerned his voice might sound unconvincing. "So you really could turn Gay into a horse?"
 "Yes, if that's what you want."
 "How would you do it?"
 "I can't reveal the specifics but it involves blending and burning animal skins, furs and ancient potions - and there are secret chants."
 "Okay..."
 "Are you sure you want me to do this? Once she's changed into a horse there is no reversing the process."
 John was convinced his friend was slightly mad. He felt a prickle of unease scratch at the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted to risk was upsetting Phil.
 "Er... yes. Go ahead. Change my wife into a horse."
 "Good, if that's your final decision, I'll need a photograph of her. Do you have one?"
 "I have a picture of both of us. It was taken fairly recently, it's in my wallet."
 John retrieved the image and handed it to Phil, who examined it closely.
 "I need to tear you out of it, don't want you ending up as a horse as well." He snorted and smiled at the thought.
 "Okay..." said John. His voice hesitant and unsure.
 Phil ripped the photograph and handed the piece containing John's image to him.
 "Go home now. I'll do the rest."
 John nodded. At last he could flee from his nutty neighbor. He wondered if he should call a doctor on the way home, as there was no doubt, Phil needed help! But he decided against it.
 As he pulled Gay's car into the driveway he expected to see her working in the garden but she was not there.
 "She probably inside lying down," he thought.
 He parked the car, entered the kitchen and... walked into a horse standing in the passage!

***

 Initially John believed he'd miss Gay's human presence and worried about being lonely and alone but he soon realized he'd, in fact, been alone for years especially  when she was there. And tranquility trumped loneliness on any day.
 He converted a shed into a stable, made sure it was warm and changed the hay daily. In an ironic twist, it was he, who picked up her shit.
 "Funny isn't it," he said one day, as he shoveled a steaming horse-turd into a bucket. "This is what you always feared you'd have to do for me."
 Gay flared her nostrils and rolled back her top lip, baring a set of yellow equine teeth.
 He smacked her rump.
 John put Gay to work. Sometimes he rode her to Phil's farm and tethered her to a verandah railing so she could hear them talk about how peaceful their changed lives were. Often she stamped her front hooves or neighed, glaring at them and they laughed but mostly they just ignored her.
 And John hitched her to old the plow and started harrowing his fields. From early morning until late afternoon, she dragged the heavy impliment while he steered it. When she slowed down or seemed to protest he smacked her smartly across the rump with a driver's whip.
 "Come on!" he urged, "You always said you like being busy!"
 In the evenings when they were done, both were wet with sweat. He rubbed her down and made sure her feed-trough was filled with fresh oats and that her stall had clean hay. And while he groomed her, Gay saw how all the hard work they did together had seen him lose weight and hone his body. He looked 20 years younger.
 When the first crop of vegetables was almost ready for harvesting, John was visited by a reporter from Mother Earth Magazine. She'd heard about his traditional farming efforts and planned an article about it for their summer edition.
 She was a pretty young thing in her mid twenties. She wore khaki shorts and a white T-shirt that displayed her curves. Her strawberry-blonde hair was cropped short and somewhat scruffy, in a sexy sort of way.
 John showed her around the small-holding and she took notes and photographs. Then they went to the stables so she could meet and photograph Gay. The horse stamped and snorted and, when the reporter attempted to stroke her nose, she tried to bite her and reared up.
 "Feisty, isn't she!" exclaimed the journalist, as she retreated behind a fence constructed of wooden poles.
 "She doesn't like other women, especially pretty young women."
 The reporter giggled. It was sweet and coquettish and reminded him of Gay, many years ago. She brushed a fleck of hay that was stuck to the side of John's face. Her finger-tips were cool.
 "Let's go and have some tea," said John, steering her towards the house, with his hand on the small of her back.
 "Sounds good," she said and slipped her arm around his waist, "and while we're there I'd love to read some of your fiction."
 As they headed for the house the horse pawed the ground and its eyes blazed red.

The End

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