Prevailing Winds, by Meg Tuite
Winds of words howled inside Gerald’s head as he sat silently eating his supper.
“You’ve just never been a people person.” Gerald’s wife picked at her lima beans, while behind glass, a panorama of juniper and blazing mountain ranges surrounded them. Gusts whistled past the house without giving anything away.
“You’ve got to play the game,” she said.
“Yes,” said Gerald, picking up a potato.
“What about McCarthy?” she asked. “He’s doesn’t do a damn thing. Why not him?”
“Would’ve made more sense,” Gerald said quietly, while wind chimes clanged outside. The front swing jangled on its chains.
“You let them walk all over you,” she said.
He looked up at her, then back at his plate. His teeth ripped at a chicken leg.
“And Carl? He knows how to play it. His wife gets her fingers done at Nails Unlimited, over by the bank. She’s got nerve sashaying in and out of there, like he’s already got your job.” She poked at the food on her plate. “They could care less if we starved.”
Gerald continued to eat.
“What the hell are we going to do now?” she asked. “I bet you just stood there while your boss handed you the walking papers?”
Gerald narrowed his eyes and worried his way through a series of facial tics. The bitch never worked a day in her life. Everyday, this endless badgering. Outside the sky was darkening. Unidentifiable creaks and bangs sounded from a distance.
“You’re just going to have to grovel. Nobody’s going to make our bed for us,” she continued. “You listening to me, Gerald? Back on that horse, first thing tomorrow.”
She was the horse and he hadn’t ridden her in years. Gerald walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and grabbed a six-pack. He sat back down and watched his wife’s jabbering mouth. He took a long swig from his can. The raging storm continued to knock over anything that gusted in its path. Gerald sucked in the last of that liquid gold, popped open another and chugged it down.
His wife’s judgment surged forward like a mutiny. She waited all day to obliterate him as soon as he walked in the door. Maybe he could trade her in for a black cat. Her teeth were yellow and her mouth an open, fucking chasm.
A savage, uncontrollable urge blazed out of Gerald as he grabbed her throat and started to throttle her like a tree branch swinging back and forth. “I could snap you in two right now, old bag,” he hissed through tightened lips.
His wife’s eyes swelled into huge purple orbits. Her bulging face ignited from within. She reached up and embedded her fork into Gerald’s cheek. He screamed and lurched back, pulling at his face. His chair knocked over and Gerald fell with it. His wife dropped back into hers, clawing for air, while the prevailing westerly’s gyrated around them, spiraling and twisting their world into one rabid knot.
