Darling Five
A bit of background regarding the inspiration for this post.
I was at our local grocery store, standing in front of the refrigerated deli items, when an older woman came up to, pulled a small tub of potato salad off the shelf, and handed it to me. She was so unbelievably sweet and excited to share her love of this brand of potato salad that I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her and refuse to buy the salad she dearly loved.
This exchange was delightful, but it got me thinking about the type of person who would be passionate about a more-or-less mundane food item. So, dear readers, I present to you Agatha, the potato salad-loving black widow.
Slowly, Agatha placed one slippered foot in front of the other, shuffling across the black tar parking lot. Her body didn’t move quite the same as it did all those years ago — when she was younger and it wouldn’t protest with the achy raw-ness of bone scraping on bone.
Old age, she found, often stole a person’s dignity, mind, and physical ability while cruelly allowed the person to keep their spark for a life they could no longer have. As much as she might have otherwise fancied herself special, time refused to spare her, just like all the rest.
The Midwest July heat radiated in waves off the parking lot. Already, beads of sweat had gathered above her upper lip. A roiling in her stomach made her body feel and her head spin.
This errand might have been a mistake, but she craved it. Like a drug addict searching for their next fix, she needed it. No matter the stress her outing placed on her body, she would have the potato salad today.
Finally, Agatha felt the rush of cold air escape from the building’s automatic doors and welcome her into the sanctuary of industrial air conditioning. She sighed heavily with relief and delicately patted the moisture on her skin, lady-like, to hide from the world that she had done something as profoundly indecent as sweat.
Both hands trembled with excitement as they reached for a small plastic basket to carry around her prize. A cart would have been more practical, but her back had given up the idea of pushing anything many years ago.
It was moments such as these that she felt her widowhood most deeply. Having a husband around was handy when errands or heavy lifting were needed. She could have sent him to the store for her.
However, most days, she never regretted living alone. Men were a hassle and often selfish. Three out of her four husbands had at some point taken a mistress. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t strayed from her vows either, but at least she had the sense to cover her tracks well enough that none of them ever knew.
Her late husbands were sloppy—all but the first, Jude.
She smiled vaguely as she passed a row of fresh sourdough bread, smelling the tanginess of the loaves. She was hungry.
Jude was a lovely boy with sun-tanned skin and strong shoulders. His shockingly white hair was always rolled in carefully set waves across his scalp. She kept a lock of it hidden away in the necklace she always wore. If she had ever wanted children, they would have been his.
But she had experienced the damage too many mouths under one roof could do. Her parents never bothered with family planning, and to this day, she didn’t know the exact number of siblings she had out in the world. She left long before the last one was born and never looked back. Her mother’s advice rang in her ears as she walked away: “A girl with a slight nose and bright eyes should never have to work a day in her life. That’s what a wealthy husband is for.”
It didn’t take long to find one, fresh from war and hungry for a future nearly stolen away. Jude never needed to serve. He did it for the honor. His family was old money, and Jude was in love. He never insisted they speak to a lawyer prior to their nuptials. To Jude, it was unfathomable that he would endure more hardships after such a bloody war. Yet, the fates allowed him to live, and he was blessed.
Her smile and pace faltered.
One “accidental” slip of her hand, tainting his dinner, had done it. He was dead within five years, and she was several million richer.
A shoulder rammed into her brittle frame, shooting a bolt of pain radiating down her right side.
“Watch it, granny,”said a greasy kid in a backward ball cap that read, “FBI: Female Body Inspector” in contrasting stitching.
Her eyes narrowed as she watched him bring his case of cheap beer to the self-checkout lane. He scanned his alcohol with one hand while the other held up the tattered jeans that still sat halfway below his belt line across his backside, low enough that she could see his crude boxers.
Her vision narrowed. If she was younger and her mind still ruthlessly clever, he wouldn’t have seen tomorrow’s dawn. He would have been rendered unconscious, then placed in a remote section of the thick woods up north near a creek so that when his body was finally discovered, it would have been too picked over by animals to lead anyone to her. No one would have ever guessed that one of his eyeballs had been removed as a trophy. Just as no one ever imagined it with her second husband, Rick.
Because, of course, lots of couples go hiking on a lovely fall weekend, and unfortunate accidents do occur — especially in the case of a less seasoned outdoorsman. One slip near a jagged rock by a steep drop and it was over.
Her small fortune tripled. By age 23, she had garnered sympathy from her community and reverence for her philanthropy. Of course, not all her money went toward worthy causes. But, she did need somewhere to live. A cozy red-brick mansion with sprawling green yards and a long winding driveway suited her fine.
With one final glance, she saw the man hoist his beer and head to the exit, undoubtedly to enjoy an afternoon of getting blackout drunk. She snarled.
Today is not a day for vengeance, she thought. No. Today was potato salad day.
Again, she slowly shuffled toward the bright lights that illuminated her prize.
Finally, she stood before row after row of stacked square plastic containers filled with decadently mayonnaise-coated slices of potatoes — each tub with its unique spice blend. By far, her favorite was the paprika and chive, but the Dijon mustard version wasn’t bad either. Today, she would splurge and get both.
A petite blonde woman stood a few feet away in too-tight black leggings and a big white stone on her finger. Agatha studied the woman for a moment. Her hand kept reaching up for different types of mozzarella before putting each container back in place. It was a marvel that someone could care so much about the kind of flavorless cheese to buy.
There was a slight tug on her heart. Agatha felt a kinship to this woman. She saw her younger self in her. She, too, was once young, with rambling curls of amber that fell in lush heaps over her shoulders. The color brought out the flecks of gold in her green eyes in a way that captivated men. She could see them losing themselves in her eyes. Their stooped bodies and parted lips were a telltale sign of what she could get away with.
But those days were past, and now she stood hunched with cropped grey and white speckled hair. Dark liver spots coated her knobby, wrinkled hands.
If she couldn’t rid the world of the “female body inspector’ alcoholic, the least she could do was to save this woman from a life without flavor. Her hands reached up to grab a container of paprika and chive.
“Excuse me,” her soft voice croaked loud enough to gain the young woman’s attention, “Do you like potato salad?”
The young woman’s blue eyes fell on her with curiosity as she considered Agatha’s question. “I do, actually.”
Her hesitation told Agatha all she needed to know. This girl was not educated in the nuances of potato salad. Obviously, she would have to assist. She held out the container to the blue-eyed woman. “Here, this one is my favorite. I think you would like it. They don’t have these all the time, and they sell out fast, so you should scoop up a few before they’re gone. They won’t be here tomorrow.”
Her words tweezed a genuine smile from the young woman as she accepted the square container. “My husband will be thrilled. He actually really likes potato salad.”
“How wonderful.” Agatha nodded toward the container she held. “That one is my favorite. It has a very clean, sharp flavor. But the Dijon mustard type is also good, just a bit sweeter.”
“Oh, great.” She girl bothered one more polite smile, though this one was just a bit tighter than the last. Agatha knew she was beginning to wear on her. Very few people understood her passion for potato salad and were even less keen to discuss the topic for several minutes. But she couldn’t help herself. “How long have you been married?” she asked.
“Oh,” said the young woman as she put the potato salad in the bottom of her cart. “Twelve years.”
“That’s a long time for someone so young. Any children?”
Agatha noticed the young woman’s posture grow rigid. “Nope, none yet, but we are working on it.”
There was a twinge of pain in her response, and Agatha regretted asking the question. It was harder now to have kids. Perhaps it was the changes in the environment or the processed foods typical in a Western diet, but families as large as hers didn’t exist anymore. Couples were careful now, in ways they weren’t during her youth.
Agatha patted the young woman’s arm. “Your husband is lucky to have you. Never forget that.”
“I won’t,” the young woman chuckled, before pushing her cart onward on her errand.
Agatha paused for a moment. She was stuck in the memory of when she was around thirty with two husbands in the ground and a new one, Ethan, in her bed. This one lasted for twenty years. It wasn’t affection that kept him alive. No, it was weariness. She hadn’t anticipated the extra work involved with catching a new husband as she aged. Also, if two were accidental, three dead husbands would look suspicious. But plump sweaty men are known to drop dead of a heart attack even at the young age of 50. A gold wristwatch and a few teeth in a jar next to the eyeball from her second husband were the trophies she kept from this one.
She shut her eyes against the cold emanating from the chilled case. A sudden weariness settled over her, and she needed to end her errand and return home. As swiftly as she could muster, she grabbed three containers of paprika and chive and three of the Dijon and placed them in her basket. The weight of the handles bit into her paper-thin skin, and she knew later a dark bruise would form there.
After paying for her prize, she once more made her way through the oppressive heat toward a green truck with rusted wheel hubs and a cracked back window. The truck was a relic left behind by her fourth and final husband. He wasn’t like the other three. He never had money but didn’t mind a bit that she came with a small fortune. What attracted her to Jamie initially was that he liked to create. But it wasn’t long after they married that the hours he wasted in their garage carving wood or building furniture became less charming and more irritating.
A few turns with a screwdriver loosened his circular saw just enough that when he turned it on, it lost control and severed his entire hand clean off. He bled out within minutes, and the police never questioned why they never found the missing hand. Instead, it stood, preserved and mounted, next to the other remnants of her former husbands, in a locked room with a heavy door in the back of her rambling home. Right next to her favorite armchair with its ever-present stack of slightly crumpled napkins, the still-plush leather dotted with ghostlike smears of her favorite potato salad.