By Carol Jenkins

He had this trick of pummeling me with a bag of oranges that hurt plenty but never left any black and blue marks. He'd read about it in one of his Soldier of Fortune magazines, and it worked so well he never had to resort to whipping me with a belt or a hanger that would have left telltale signs.

But it was no fantasy the day I came home to find my husband dead as a striped bass left on the hook too long. I knew enough not to touch the body, although I did hold my little Merle Norman compact mirror in front of his mouth to see if he was breathing.

My three favorite fantasies all began with my husband being dead. The first scenario entailed coming home and finding him shot through the head. I'd call 911 and open the door a short while later to a big, handsome detective who was the meanest son of a bitch on the force. He would suspect me for a couple of weeks, in which time we would fall hopelessly in love, and then catch the real killer. We'd get married, raise a couple of cub scouts, and live happily ever after.

My second fantasy was that a rare tropical disease with no cure would leave me a young widow, forced to go out with the specialist who had tried to save my husband's life. We would quickly discover we were meant to be together, and since nothing stood in our way, we'd have a quick wedding and go to Acapulco for our honeymoon.

The third fantasy had me coming home to discover a knife stuck in my husband's chest. I'd pull it out realizing too late that my fingerprints were now on the murder weapon. I'd make a quick phone call to a high-powered attorney who would get me off the hook at the last minute. He'd ask the judge to marry us as soon as I was acquitted.

You might be wondering why I wanted my husband dead and you'd be right up there with the rest of the folks around here who thought he was the greatest. Thomas Magrith and I had known each other since grade school and he'd been my boyfriend for as long. I had no daddy and my mama adored him. When Thomas was eighteen, he formally asked Mama if he could court me. She said yes with a wink because she knew courtship was just an expression for "short engagement." Everyone seemed to think we were right for each other. Everyone, that is, except Marshall, or as we all called him, Marshy Jenkins.

Marshy had been in school with us, although a few years ahead, and had never gotten along with Thomas. Thomas said he'd tried, but Marshy wouldn't have nothing to do with him. Marshy told me not to ever marry Thomas - said he was meaner than a rattler and just as dumb. He'd never go into any more of an explanation so it was easier not to believe him. I think he'd had an eye out for me himself and it was a case of simple jealousy.

After Thomas and I got married, I saw that Marshy had been only partially right. Thomas didn't have nothing but mean bones in his body - he was dreadful. He'd once thrown a whole dinner against the dining room wall, just like Carlo did to Connie in "The Godfather," and then shouted for me to clean it up. He had this trick of pummeling me with a bag of oranges that hurt plenty but never left any black and blue marks. He'd read about it in one of his Soldier of Fortune magazines, and it worked so well he never had to resort to whipping me with a belt or a hanger that would have left telltale signs. I ran home to Mama the first time he beat me but she just sat me down, said I was a grown woman now and told me to find a way to deal with it. "Stay away from him when he's in one of his moods," she had warned me. "Don't tell no one about it.," was her motherly advice.

But it was no fantasy the day I came home to find my husband dead as a striped bass left on the hook too long. I knew enough not to touch the body, although I did hold my little Merle Norman compact mirror in front of his mouth to see if he was breathing. I took my first easy breath in years when I discovered he wasn't. There was no good-looking cop to call; the only law enforcement officer I knew was Cliff Mayhew, the crossing guard down at the day school. Old Doc Lerner had operated on Wyatt Wilson's wrong leg so he sure as hell wouldn't be getting a phone call. But I did call the only lawyer I knew - Marshy Jenkins.

Marshy was at the door within twenty minutes and found me in sort of a daze just sitting there on the sofa eating a Peppermint Patty. When he found out the police hadn't been called, he did it for me. He figured he'd have about ten minutes alone with me until they arrived. "Did you do it, Cherry?" he said.

"Of course not, Marshy, why you know me better than that." I explained that I came home at six o'clock that evening like I do five nights a week after leaving Oh Susannah's Decorating Shop where I'd been working since I was a junior in high school. Everyone said I had a real nice touch and Susy called me her "protégée." She'd put a lot of learning into me and I never let her down. I'd shouted "hey" to Thomas and when he didn't answer, went straight into the kitchen to put up dinner. After my water was on to boil, I went into the bedroom to get out of my good shoes and put on my terrycloth scuffs that were kind of scraggly but comfortable. It was when I opened the bathroom door that I saw him - crumpled up in the corner with an ax through his heart. I was about to tell Marshy about my mirror breath check when the police walked in. We hadn't ever bothered locking our doors, and the police asked me later why I hadn't started to since my husband had just been murdered.

Marshy stayed with me the whole time the police questioned me down at headquarters. Nothing ever happened in our town like this and they weren't exactly prepared for an interrogation. And they sure as hell didn't know how to play good cop, bad cop. Marshy told them either to make an arrest or let me go. They knew they had to release me, telling me rather dramatically not to leave town, as if I'd had a Swiss chalet to run off to. I went home to Mama that night because the bathroom needed to get all cleaned up before I could stay in my house again, plus Inspector Clouseau and his pal had told me not to go near the scene of the crime. I woke Mama out of a sound sleep to tell her the news about Thomas and although she knew he wasn't exactly Ward Cleaver, she cried like a baby. I said goodnight to Marshy, not forgetting to thank him for all he'd done and he said he'd be checking in on me in the morning.

The police tried to build a case against me but the District Attorney said there was no real physical evidence except an ax wiped clean and more importantly, no motive. Thomas and I were known as a happy couple - honeymooners even after six years of marriage. All the workers down at the plant said he was always bragging on his sweet little Cherry and how she'd fixed up the house real fancy and loved to cook this special stuffed meatloaf every Friday night for him. Why would a wife like that want to kill her husband, they all asked. Thomas had told them we were planning on having a baby soon because we had to stop acting like teenagers some time. So by the end of the summer, when all the kids were going back to school, the D.A. stopped his investigation and the police went back to racing their cars on an old strip down by the high school.

That Thanksgiving Mama suggested we have our meal out in a restaurant. She said she'd read where it was good for people who'd had stressful changes in their lives to do something different for the holidays. I tried to tell her that advice was for people who were actually grieving, not relieved, happy ones, but she insisted. She said she didn't want to cook a big meal just for the two of us. At the last minute, Marshy called and accepted my invitation for him to join us at The Copper Kettle on Thanksgiving Day.

We all ordered the Turkey Special, but the meat was dry as paper even though it had been drowned in canned brown gravy. No one could beat Mama's turkeys - she farmed them herself and always chose the plumpest ones for holiday dinners. She boasted that her turkeys had breasts like Marilyn Monroe. Thomas always said that he'd wished I did too while I'd smile behind gritted teeth. Mama's dressing and sweet potato pie were better than anything The Copper Kettle could put out, and although she knew to leave the orange slices out of the cranberry compote, it couldn't be beat either.

"Mama, this meal can't compare to your cooking," I said. "Why don't we put on our regular Christmas spread this year and maybe Marshy will join us? How 'bout it?" Mama hesitated just long enough for him to accept and offer to bring a special wine that he said went well with turkey.

The next few weeks flew by and I found myself with another one of my fantasies: Marshy, Mama and I having our first home dinner together with no fights before, during or after. This was no instant falling in love and getting married fantasy, so I guess you could say it was more of an expectation. Mama was as nervous as a mouse looking down a snake's jaw and nothing I could say would calm her. "Mama, you've done these dinners a hundred times - this time's no different except that I don't think Marshy's going to beat me afterwards."

"I don't know why I don't feel up to it this year," Mama said slowly. "Maybe I'll just buy one of those frozen self-baster turkeys."

I knew at that moment that Mama had killed Thomas. Mama had butchered her own turkeys from the time I could remember running away from the bloody event. She was saying that she didn't have her ax any longer, something about it being broken, and not getting around to replacing it. I sat down on Mama's burgundy velvet love seat and asked her to fix us some iced tea. She sat down next to me, and both of us just sipped and thought a bit. Then she said, "Cherry, I had to do it. I saw you trapped in a marriage that you'd never get out of. I knew he'd beat you if you got pregnant and he'd beat you if you didn't. I couldn't stand by and watch my daughter have a life like that. I didn't know what else to do."

I knew what I had to do. I picked up the phone and called Marshy. "Hi Marshy, it's Cherry. Just a quick question. Does that wine you're bringing over Christmas day go with ham?"

Carol Jenkins lives in Boca Raton. She writes fiction and poetry for adults and children, has just finished a romance novel, and is co-writing a suspense novel. She also writes a monthly column for Senior Scene newspaper in Delray Beach.