Penn Stewart

A Spicy Monkey and his Elfin Wife

by Penn Stewart

“Expiration dates on condiments are the stepping stones to letting go,” Linda said as she squatted next to the refrigerator. “Why did we buy chutney?” She held up the nearly full bottle.

I shrugged. “We were eating Indian one night?

“My god. It’s crystalized. How old—I don’t remember eating Indian.”

“I made a curry that one time.”

She gave the word curry a quizzical look—probably remembering Nigel, her second husband—and then tossed the chutney into the garbage bin. She picked up a tall skinny bottle next. “Does Tabasco go bad?”

“It’s vinegar and peppers. I don’t think bacteria could survive in it. Like me, it’s too spicy.”

“Good lord, Andy. We’ve got to do this more often.”

Her head disappeared into the cavern of the Kenmore fridge. The monkey in me wanted to pick up her legs, push her the rest of the way in, and close the door. Another part of me thought I wanted to stay married. I was Linda’s fourth husband and had no plans of being her fourth ex.

Thanksgiving was a week away and her mother and siblings were coming, which meant a purging of old things from the refrigerator. There were two reasons. One she’d cite, and the other was the actual reason. Since she’d be cooking for six people she reasoned that she needed the extra space. Fair enough, but how much room does an old jar of chutney take up? Really, how much space did Nigel take up? The real reason was her mother. Three years ago we were all splayed out on the couches buzzing from turkey and stuffing watching the Detroit Lions lose, and her mother disappeared into the kitchen. She was gone for at least a quarter.

Linda walked in to the kitchen and stopped at the doorway. “Mom!? What the hell?”

Her mother had pulled everything out. I mean everything. Both crisper drawers, all the shelves, and every last bit of food. The counters were already covered with the leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner, so her mother had put all the food on the floor. And she’d crawled inside the fridge. The woman is like four foot nine—Linda’s not much taller—and she stood in there with a dish rag cleaning away, scrubbing like a charwoman. Linda was red with rage and embarrassment, which is pretty much the reason we haven’t had her folks over for Thanksgiving since.

“Does mustard go bad?”

Karl, number three, loved mustard on everything. “Listen, Linda. You’ve got to get over this thing with your mother.”

She stared me down like Clint Eastwood. “I’m trying to move on. That’s why I’m cleaning out the goddamned fridge.” I blinked, and she beaned me in the head with the jar of mustard.

I should’ve known better, but I couldn’t stand how obsessive she’d become with the impending holiday. Anyway, when my eyes opened, and I realized my ninja monkey skills weren’t what I thought they were, Linda was holding me in her lap, dabbing the lump on my forehead.

“Jeez,” she said. “You’re going to have an egg.”

Peter, number one, was a chicken farmer. I wanted to tell her that she’d have to explain to her mother why husband number four was being abused just like husbands one and three. Nigel took off after six weeks—coward—so he avoided Linda’s fastball condiments. “It’ll be okay,” I said. “Sorry.”

The day her folks arrived the place was spotless. I wasn’t even sure it was our house. It’s not like we live like dirt bags or anything, but the place looked like it was staged by one of those designers on the HG Network. In the kitchen we had bowls of fake fruit, a vertical herb garden, and something called shiplap on one wall. When the hell did she put up shiplap?

Of course her mother was impressed. She squeezed my arm. “You’re so handy, Andy.” She giggled like a school girl. “I’ll have to have you come over and put shiplap up in my kitchen. You did such a fine job.”

“Sure,” I said, even though I could feel Linda’s eyes burning a hole in my head.

Her mother reached up and touched the bruise on my forehead. “Did you hurt yourself putting it up?”

She turned to Linda. “You should’ve helped Andy.” And then she looked at me. “You’re such a good husband. Much better than those others.”

It was then I realized my expiration date had expired, and I’d end up in the bin with the old chutney. It didn’t matter what I said or did. Linda was going to clean house as soon as Thanksgiving was over.

I thought I might have a slight chance, but the turkey was ropey, the stuffing dry, and the green bean casserole her sister brought found its way to the kitchen floor before it found the table. Her mother heard the crash of glass and came in the kitchen and clicked her tongue like an old hen while Linda tried to clean up the mess. I was in the other room watching the Detroit Lions lose another Thanksgiving game, but I heard the tongue click. My mind jumped to the magnet bar over the cutting board that secured all our kitchen knives and listened for the sound of steel. In the end, I heard nothing but the remains of the green beans sliding into the garbage bin.

After dinner, and after much awkward conversation, and after her mother and siblings walked to their cars and pulled out of the driveway, I held her in the doorway. I was half in and half out. This is the moment, I thought. “I think next year we should go to Mexico for Thanksgiving.”

Linda looked up into my eyes. “I think we both love the same things, even though you’re part monkey and I’m part elf.”

I smiled and hugged her, thankful my expiration date had been extended.

Penn Stewart lives and writes in Wichita Falls, Texas. He has a big brown lab named Yoda and a Les Paul guitar named Betsy. Neither of them come when called. His latest flash fiction will appear in the Iron Horse Review, his longer stuff is up at Pacifica Literary Review and Literary Orphans, and he's got a chapbook of stories coming out called The Water in Our Veins.