My Dear Wife, Dorothy

Writer’s Cramp prompt:

A man takes a picnic lunch to his wife's office to surprise her, but when he arrives, he's told that she hasn't worked there in weeks. She never said anything, and has dressed and left for work the same time every day as usual.

Write the story, DRAMA or MYSTERY genre.

My Dear Wife, Dorothy
992 words

“Dorothy,” repeats the secretary. “Dorothy Johanna? Why she hasn’t worked here for several weeks now. When was her last day? Let me see.”

The red-headed gum chewer is smacking away at a giant wad as she turns the pages in her diary. It reminds me of how my wife always complained about the girl. “Inefficiency,” Dorothy used to say, “should be stamped out immediately. They shouldn’t allow Cherie to talk to our customers chewing a cud of gum. It’s so embarrassing.”

Not as embarrassing as finding out that my wife no longer works at the same company she’s been at for the last seventeen years. Why didn’t she tell me she quit? Why didn’t she say anything?

“Here it is. October 17th, a Thursday, which I thought was rather strange,” Cherie tells me, while popping another gum-bubble. “If I were going to quit, I’d do it on Friday.”

“My wife quit?” I repeat like an insipid parrot. I shift the lunch I’ve brought. The gingham red and white cloth that once looked cheery, now only looks pathetic.

“Do you know what company she went to?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t have her new number, and I kind of wanted to have lunch with her today since it’s our anniversary.”

“Oh, how sweet!” Cherie coos, as she tugs at her pale pink bubblegum, stretching it into a six-inch long string.

Her display is far from attractive. I look away, glancing at the clock.

“Gosh,” Cherie tells me. “I don’t know where she went. Funny how she didn’t tell you she was quitting.”

I sigh. Had Dorothy told me? Was it one of those times I was reading the paper and pretending to listen to her? Or had she just simply forgotten to mention it? How could she have, though? To quit her job? To work for someone else -- she loved her work…

I rub my forehead, trying to think, trying to remember. She’d gone to work in that cute little navy suit that always made me think of a military uniform. Had she looked different? Had she seemed worried?

“Thanks, Cherie,” I say, pulling my thoughts back to the present. “Dorothy didn’t leave a new phone number then?”

“Oh, why, yes. I have it somewhere.” Cherie starts ruffling through her center drawer and pulls out a heavy black address book. “Here it is! Johanna, Dorothy. Her new number is 4-6 . . .

“Wait a minute! How do I know she’d want you to have this number? You’re not, like, going through a bad divorce, or anything, are you?”

I shift the picnic basket again. It weighs a good twenty-five pounds. My hands are starting to get blisters from it.

I swallow, breathe in deeply, and attempt not to allow irritation to flavor my reply. “I just told you, Cherie. Dorothy and I are celebrating our nineteenth wedding anniversary today.”

“Yeah?” Cherie sits there a moment cracking the detestable gum.

Finally she says, “All right. I guess Dorothy would have told me. It’s 467-9045 ext.881.”

“Thanks Cherie,” I call out as I head for the door.

Outside, the cold air assaults me. I shiver, pull up my collar, and flip open my cell phone.

“I’m sorry, that number has been disconnected. Would you like to return to the exchange?” says an automated voice.

There’s fresh snow in the parking lot. I’m moving carefully, aware that there may be pockets of slippery ice beneath it.

“Yes,” I answer impatiently as I unlock my car.

I stamp my feet a couple of times for warmth and to get rid of most of top coating of snow. Then I slide into my Toyota, toss the picnic lunch onto the seat beside me, and turn on the motor so I can get some heat.

“May I help you?” says the exchange.

“I’m trying to locate Dorothy Johanna. The number I was given has been disconnected.”

“Dorothy Johanna?” the woman says.

My car is purring, but the heater is slow to warm. I shiver again and pull my coat tighter. My feet feel numb.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the same woman says. “We have no record of a Dorothy Johanna.”

“I don’t understand,” I start to argue, but the woman has just disconnected.

There’s nothing left for me to do but drive back home. I glance at the picnic box filled with all the things Dorothy loves -- deviled eggs, crunchy dill pickles, ham sandwiches on rye. I’d even put in a good bottle of Chablis and . . .

I force my mind to stop worrying. There’s just been a mix-up. Dorothy’s fine. She’ll probably laugh about it when she gets home from wherever she now works.

I turn right on Silver Creek Lane, into the residential area where we’ve lived for most of our married life. Snow is falling gently, coating the car with its damp whispers. I turn on the window wipers, and slow down.

The neighbor across the street from us must be having a party. There are cars everywhere. I turn into the driveway. Did I leave the light on? I heave a sigh, not caring.

Where is Dorothy? Where is my sweet, lovely wife? And why is it that I don’t know that?

I shuffle up to the front door. My hands are awkward coming up with the key. I should have parked in the garage and come in through the side. But I didn’t.

My key slides in easily; the front door swings open. It’s dark inside. Why did I think the light was on?

“Happy Anniversary!” people yell out.

I take a step forward. “What?” I cry out, confused, but Dorothy is standing right in front of me. She’s beautiful. I sweep her into my arms and kiss her soundly, right in front of the gum-chewing Cherie.

Relief floods me. I should be angry, but I’m not. Dorothy’s looking radiant, pleased as punch, and all I can think of is how much I love her.


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