Short story by Pascale Malenfant.
I suppose it was her passivity that led me to conclude we were meant to be. By no means was she conventionally attractive in her youth, but I assumed a bit of work and regular companionship might warm her to the idea of gentrification.
Some men prefer charm, others regality, while I have always been drawn to the promise of a foundation with potential. The first time I caressed her sides, she begrudgingly revealed to me what she believed to be her shameful defects, assuming I should know all of her before I make any kind of commitment.
I told her I had every intention to turn each of those apparent flaws into what she would eventually see as provocative idiosyncrasies, peculiar characteristics which would do nothing but contribute to her overall value.
For years, she yielded to my probing and restoration, contributing to the accumulated strength of our relationship. Though she has yet to cross the threshold of traditional beauty, I shall never tire of admiring the fruit of my labour, from both within and without.
Despite our best efforts, we have not escaped our share of trying experiences. It was evident from the beginning that she would be unable to provide us with children. Neither of us dared propose adoption, considering the circumstances of our relationship, and our mutual inaction resulted in a decade of lonesome vacancy.
With little to occupy her, save for dust bunnies and the side garden she enjoyed watching me tend to, our childlessness became an obnoxious lack. She understood her most meaningful purpose in life would be to rear and nurture, watching fumbling steps become sprightly leaps and disjointed syllables evolve into expressive dialogue.
Witnessing the passivity I once revered deteriorate into depressive mutism drove me to action. No deed with the potential of ensuring her happiness would ever carry too great a consequence.
She was adamant that we should have a boy. I spent months searching neighbouring suburbs for a suitable child. My efforts did not go unrewarded, as one of my church’s altar boys eventually captured my attention.
Though a touch less robust than I would have liked in a son, his reserved nature made it easy to encourage distance between him and the other churchgoers. He had a tendency to arrive before the priest in order to complete his duties in isolation, always taking the same route from his family’s townhome in dull oxfords and second-hand slacks.
Suburbia rarely rouses before five on Sunday mornings, and luring him into my car with the offer of a ride to church was comically simple. The child, whom I eventually learned was named Richard, had not yet been taught that a familiar face did not necessarily mean honest intent, and was reluctant to suspect anything out of the ordinary until he was knocked unconscious. As I drove, I spoke to him despite knowing he would be unlikely to hear me.
“She’s going to love you,” I told him. “She can be a difficult woman to read, but I know her well. You are exactly what she deserves.”
Graphic by Sara Mizannojehdehi.
