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Fiction Short Story

by Marcia Kiser

Mona Lisa Smile

Kathryn Gray smiled softly as she scrambled eggs for her husband's supper. He'd fractured her wrist last night, so eggs were all she could manage. Of course, he'd told the emergency room nurse that she had fallen. Derek had glanced over his shoulder to see if Kathryn had heard. She had, but she didn't let him know, she just smiled. Not a big smile, not a vacant smile, just a small, knowing smile that infuriated Derek. When she smiled like that, Derek couldn't reach her, no matter how much he pounded on her. He called it her 'Mona Lisa Smile'.

Kathryn learned Derek's rules quickly after their honeymoon. Towels to be dry and hung exactly straight. Meals served at the time specified—by Derek. The menu was also chosen by Derek, who didn't have a clue how long it took to roast a duck, but did know how to deliver body blows that never broke a rib, but left her breathing shallowly for weeks.

Within a month, she'd learned the wisdom of quitting her job. Not that Derek would have suggested it. Fortunately, he earned enough to keep the lifestyle that he so enjoyed.

By their first anniversary, Derek had bought her a whole new wardrobe and had thrown out all the clothes Kathryn had bought over the years, including her favorite worn out jeans and faded college sweatshirt. She had no more scruffy times. She was always dressed, coiffed, painted and perfumed—to Derek's specifications. She felt like a Stepford Wife.

By their second anniversary, Kathryn could serve twenty guests a nine-course dinner with two hours notice. Derek insisted she keep up her skill on the piano, and often insisted she play for his dinner guests—people she didn't know, but had indexed on their computer, so she'd remember to send cards on birthdays and anniversaries and have their favorite liquor and chocolate on hand.

By their third anniversary, Kathryn couldn't remember what a tort or a writ was. Her days in law school seemed like a vague and fuzzy dream. Three months later, after a soufflé collapsed, Kathryn found her secret place. That was the first time she had awakened in the hospital and learned how she had clumsily fallen down the stairs, and miraculously, broken no bones.

Now she scrambled eggs that would have made a Cordon Bleu chef envious. Derek chatted while she stirred. She smiled and stared at the prescription bottle on the shelf over the sink. In her secret place, she didn't need the pain medication, but Derek didn't know that. He never looked at the bottle.

She picked up the vial and shook it. A faint buzzing reached her. She lowered the flame under the skillet and turned to the table where her husband sat.

"Honey, move your papers, please. I need to set the table."

Derek looked up. "Don't you want me in here with you?" he asked, smiling his oh-so-charming smile. "Just move the centerpiece and we can use the other end of the table."

She nodded. "All right." As she picked up the centerpiece, she flipped the lid off the prescription bottle and dumped the bee into the vase. She hit the vase, making it spin crazily.

"Kathryn."

Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared at the warning note in Derek's voice, but she held onto her smile. "I'm sorry, Derek. It's too big for me to pick up one handed."

"Well, honey, why didn't you say so?" He gave her a hug, hitting her cast lightly. "I'll help," he murmured into her hair.

Derek shouted and slapped his neck. Kathryn jumped back.

"How the hell did a bee get in..."

As Kathryn watched, the red spot on Derek's neck grew larger. Derek clawed at his throat and his breath became harsh and ragged.

Without warning, his rigid body relaxed and slipped to the floor.

Kathryn tilted her head to one side. Warily, she stepped closer and held a spoon close to his nose, then his mouth. As she pushed herself up slowly, she realized her broken wrist ached. She took the skillet from the stove and scraped the eggs into the trash. She took the prescription bottle and the loose pain pills and replaced them, after swallowing two.

She turned to the phone. As she dialed 9-1-1, she realized she was no longer in her secret place. She'd lost her Mona Lisa smile.

© Copyright 2003 Marcia Kiser


About The Author
Marcia Kiser writes, works, and lives in Lubbock, TX. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and her short stories have appeared in Nefarious, The Thrilling Detective, Dusty Cowboy, Novel Advice Mysterical-E, FUTURES, and the recently released Novel Advice Anthology. She can be contacted at Mek357@sbcglobal.net.