The Best American Mystery Stories 1997

Mabel Maney Mrs. Feeley Is Quite Mad from Out for More Blood: Tales of Malice and Retaliation by Women

Monday, February 5, Mrs. Feeley, of 37 Badger Avenue, did her wash, as usual. It was a gray day. Mrs. Feeley, as usual, first soaked Mr. Feeley’s shirts in a concentrate of Duz detergent, thirty-nine cents for the large-size box that тек only at the new Piggly-Wiggly. Then she scrubbed the collars and cuffs with a little scrub brush, five cents from the five-and-dime, put the shirts through the hand wringer, and hung them on the clothesline out back to dry. There were storm clouds in the eastern sky, so Mrs. Feeley clipped Mr. Feeley’s wet shirts to a makeshift line in the basement, something she knew would annoy Mr. Feeley terribly but couldn’t be helped.

“There’s a place for everything, and everything in its place,” Mr. Feeley had scolded Mrs. Feeley once when he had come home early and found his good shirts hanging in the dark cellar. If they had a telephone, Mr. Feeley could notify Mrs. Feeley that he was coming home at an unexpected hour, but a private telephone was a luxury the Feeleys could ill afford.

Mr. Feeley had put up the clothesline in the back yard himself, thus saving a tidy sum, and so rightly preferred Mrs. Feeley use it as it was meant to be used and not as a resting place for the chickadees and sparrows that came around looking for bird seed, three cents a pound at Smith s Hardware, paid for by Mrs. Feeley out of her personal allowance with which she purchased stockings, facial powder, and other female fripperies.

Mr. Feeley, who was good with money and other important things, kept track of Mrs. Feeley’s expenditures since it was clear that Mrs. Feeley, who had no head for numbers, would give the coat off her back to anyone with a hard-luck story and a sad smile. The coat was a perfectly good red wool, three-quarter-lenght overcoat with a smart squirrel collar that was only a little worn in places and with care would see Mrs. Feeley through many more harsh winters.

Mrs. Feeley had never worked in her entire life and so didn’t know the true cost of things. Some women like poor Mrs. Bederhoeffer from the Rotary Club had learned this lesson the hard way. Mr. Bederhoeffer had gone hunting one day and never returned, and was later spotted in Chicago with his secretary, Miss Dithers. Mrs. Bederhoeffer would die old and alone in a little room at her sister’s. Thank goodness for Mr. Feeley, who was as loyal as the day was long.

Tuesday, after Mrs. Feeley had finished the breakfast dishes, she took Mr. Feeley’s shirts from the line and sprinkled them with water from a 7-Up bottle with tiny holes punched through the cap. She had made it herself using a number-two sewing needle and a hammer. Making things yourself saves you money. Mrs. Feeley had driven the needle through her nail only once and that had stopped bleeding by the time Mr. Feeley had returned home for supper. Mr. Feeley had been quick to point out that what little Mrs. Feeley had saved she had wasted in bandages for her finger. Mrs. Feeley was to remember that most accidents happen in the home, Mr. Feeley told her.

After Mr. Feeley’s shirts were sufficiently dampened, Mrs. Feeley rolled them into tight bundles, squeezed them into plastic bread wrappers, and stacked them in an orderly fashion in the giant stainless-steel deep-freeze in the cellar, a gift from Mr. Feeley on the occasion of her sixtieth birthday, almost exactly one year ago. Mrs. Feeley had secretly wished for a modern freezer like her best friend Myra Meeks’s, which was pink and went so well with her white-and-gold Formica kitchen set, but Mr. Feeley said the large commercial freezer was more economical. Mr. Feeley could bring home entire cows bought wholesale, and Mrs. Feeley could carve them with a large cleaver Mr. Feeley kept razor sharp. Mrs. Feeley often fell faint as she sawed through muscle and flesh, but she knew the savings were great and so never complained.

Mr. Feeley had gotten the idea from their next-door neighbor, Mrs. Mertz, a retired home economics teacher who ran her household as tight as a battleship. Since Mrs. Mertz was a widow, Mr. Feeley helped her with difficult chores. Not only was he a good neighbor, he picked up many helpful household tips for Mrs. Feeley.

The bottom of the freezer was lined with tidy bundles of meat, wrapped in white butcher paper and marked with a big black grease pencil. Flank. Rump. Tongue. Liver. A dozen smaller bundles occupied a corner of the deep-freeze. It was venison Mr. Feeley brought home every week, gifts from the men at work who appreciated Mr. Feeley’s careful handling of their money, Mr. Feeley being a loan officer at the biggest bank in town. Some of the meat had been there for a whole year now, but Mr. Feeley had instructed Mrs. Feeley to leave it be. Mrs. Feeley figured the meat was gamy to begin with; otherwise, it would have found its way to the supper table long ago, as theirs was a frugal household.

Mr. Feeley was simply too nice to hurt anyone’s feelings by turning down their gift. Besides, the freezer was so big there was plenty of room for the casseroles and vegetables Mrs. Feeley spent her afternoons putting up, not to mention Mr. Feeley’s shirts. The freezer was big enough to hold a body, Myra had once pointed out, with a little laugh. It gave Mrs. Feeley the shivers every time she went downstairs.

The freezer had belonged to a butcher driven out of business by the Piggly-Wiggly supermarket and was just a tiny bit stained inside with blood. The prices were better at the Piggly-Wiggly so Mrs. Feeley shopped there now, from a list Mr. Feeley prepared for her before he went to work. It kept her from acting impulsively.

Mrs. Feeley always felt like a traitor when she walked past the small shops owned by people who had always seemed genuinely interested in her well-being. Mrs. Pringle from the bakery had even gifted Mrs. Feeley with a little pink birthday cake on her sixtieth, and everyone in the store had sung “Happy Birthday,” but once Mr. Feeley had made up his mind, there was no arguing with him.

“There’s a place for everything and everything in its place,” Mr. Feeley had said. Clothes belonged on the clothesline, birds in the sky, and money in the bank.

Mrs. Feeley’s birthday was Friday, her regular shopping day, and this year she wasn’t at all looking forward to it. Last year Myra had given her a lovely rayon housecoat and matching slippers that were far too elegant for someone like Mrs. Feeley. This year Myra was at her daughter’s in Cleveland helping with a new baby, a girl, so there would be no one to sing to Mrs. Feeley. Friday night was Mr. Feeley’s night out with the boys. Soon Mr. Feeley would retire and be home all day, every day.

Wednesday Mrs. Feeley took Mr. Feeley’s stiff, icy shirts from the freezer and, after they thawed, pressed them good and flat with an old iron heated on the gas range. The results were almost as good as a professional presser at no cost whatsoever. Mrs. Feeley sometimes felt as though she would snap in two from the effort.

Mrs. Feeley decided she would ask Mr. Feeley that very night if they could purchase a lightweight electric iron with temperature controls and a durable safety cord. It would be her birthday gift. An advertisement in Good Housekeeping magazine promised it would make her ironing day a breeze. A photograph of skating star Sonja Henie illustrated this point. Mrs. Feeley’s iron would glide over the cold, hard mountain of shirts like a lady skater gliding over the ice.

Myra had been a wonderful skater as a girl, so Mrs. Feeley had carefully cut out the photograph and put it in the top drawer of her sewing chest to show her later.

As she ironed, Mrs. Feeley began to smile. She imagined herself perched on gleaming white skates doing figure-eights while the ladies from the Rotary Club applauded politely. Then she imagined she was skating with Myra, her best friend in the world, and almost burned Mr. Feeley’s favorite shirt!

Now that Myra was a widow and long out of mourning, she went on glamorous trips to faraway places, often inviting Mrs. Feeley along, free of charge. Short leisure trips interrupted household duties and caused havoc to Mr. Feeley, who relied on Mrs. Feeley to keep the home-fires burning while Mr. Feeley worked hard to ensure them a future in an unstable world. Just that morning Mrs. Feeley had received a postcard from the Snow Carnival in Cleveland, which only reminded Mrs. Feeley again of the electric iron she so badly wanted.

That night when Mrs. Feeley tried to bring up the subject of the iron she got confused and, to her horror, found herself telling Mr. Feeley that she wished to become a figure skater! Mr. Feeley looked alarmed but said nothing. After a while he asked Mrs. Feeley to pass the mashed potatoes. Later, while in the cellar getting sausage for the next day’s breakfast, Mrs. Feeley convinced herself that Mr. Feeley hadn’t heard her at all. Mrs. Feeley was awfully relieved. Many of the women in Mrs. Feeley’s family had lived long, unhappy lives with no one to care for them. Mrs. Feeley was fortunate. She and Mr. Feeley would be together until death.

Thursday, as Mrs. Feeley mended the frayed cuffs of Mr. Feeley’s shirts and replaced chipped buttons, she got the surprise of her life. The afternoon mail brought with it a bus ticket and a note from Myra begging her to spend her birthday in Cleveland. In her excitement, Mrs. Feeley, who hadn’t gone anywhere since her honeymoon, almost forgot about the prunes stewing on the stove. The bus would leave Friday after breakfast and, after a stopover in Chicago, would arrive in Cleveland at noon. Mrs. Feeley would return first thing Monday morning, leaving plenty of time to start her wash.

Confident that Mr. Feeley would never miss her, Mrs. Feeley packed her suitcase, the same one she had taken on her honeymoon, laid the dinner dishes on the dining room table, and waited for Mr. Feeley. She spent the afternoon rehearsing her conversation with Mr. Feeley.

But before she could finish telling Mr. Feeley about the free ticket, Mr. Feeley announced that he had news of his own. He was going hunting. He would leave right after work tomorrow and be gone the entire weekend. Mr. Feeley would need his hunting clothes, sandwiches, and beer. While he spent the evening cleaning his rifle, Mrs. Feeley must run to the supermarket before it closed and get some of that tasty spiced ham in a can, for sandwiches. Mr. Feeley didn’t intend to come home after work tomorrow. He would take his things with him.

Mrs. Feeley threw on her worn red coat with the squirrel collar and practically ran to the Piggly-Wiggly. Success was assured, for even Mr. Feeley would see how practical it was for her to go away at the same time. She told everyone, even the sour store manager who never smiled at her, that Mr. Feeley was going hunting. The man who sold her the spiced ham stared at her just like Mr. Feeley did when Mrs. Feeley prattled on too long about insignificant things, as she was wont to do.

Mrs. Feeley realized with a start that she had run out of the house without her coupons, and spiced ham was on sale that week, six cans for one dollar with coupon only. The store manager promised she could bring her coupon tomorrow and he would give her the extra two cans, but tonight she could only have four. Mrs. Feeley ran home praying Mr. Feeley wouldn’t want more than four sandwiches, only to find a startling scene in her kitchen. Her most private things, including the lovely rayon housecoat and matching slippers from Myra, were heaped in a pile on the worn linoleum kitchen floor and her suitcase was nowhere to be found.

Had Mrs. Feeley been robbed?

Mrs. Feeley jumped when she heard something lumbering about in the cellar. Mrs. Feeley tiptoed down the stairs and was surprised to see Mr. Feeley standing near the stainless-steel deep-freeze, a package of that old venison from the boys at work in his hand. Mr. Feeley was a big man with hands like hams who moved clumsily through the world. Mr. Feeley had blurted out an abrupt proposal of marriage just weeks after his mother’s death. No one else had wanted Mrs. Feeley. No one else had even asked.

Her suitcase, the one she had had long before she married Mr. Feeley, lay open nearby, packed with neat bundles of meat. Luckily, Mrs. Feeley’s maiden name had also begun with an F, and so she hadn’t had to get any new luggage when she married.

Mrs. Feeley cringed. The meat would thaw overnight and ruin her only suitcase! Mrs. Feeley plopped down heavily on the creaky wooden stairs and tried to stop the fluttering in her chest. How could she go to Cleveland now?

“Mr. Feeley, have you lost your mind?” Mrs. Feeley surprised herself by crying out. After thirty-five years of marriage, she knew full well that Mr. Feeley hated to converse after a hard day at work.

Mr. Feeley placed another neat bundle of meat into the suitcase, then turned to look at Mrs. Feeley.

“Mrs. Feeley,” he said, running his hand over his faded brown hair, or what was left of it, “Mrs. Feeley, I’m leaving you.” He said it in the same tone of voice one might have used when reporting the weather. Showers are expected for this evening, but look for sunshine tomorrow.

“You are going hunting.” Mrs. Feeley felt confused and flushed. She clutched the paper sack containing four cans of spiced ham to her bosom.

“I am going away.” Mr. Feeley corrected her, talking slowly and deliberately as if speaking to a daft child. “You’ll find the mortgage papers in my top desk drawer, although they’ll be of little use to you when the bank comes to collect its due.”

Mrs. Feeley took off her eyeglasses and wiped them on the hem of her cotton housecoat. It was long past time for Mrs. Feeley to get stronger lenses, but she could see Mr. Feeley clear enough. A little drop of saliva clung to his bottom lip, a lip so thin and stretched it looked like an angry red mark in his large, meaty face. Mrs. Feeley must be hearing things, like that girl from Menasha who said a voice told her to jump off the Wanamukka Bridge and so she did.

“You can go live with your brother and his wife,” Mr. Feeley added helpfully. “You can have all the furniture and your clothes.” He took a freshly starched handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his high, shiny forehead with it. Bending over the deep-freeze had caused Mr. Feeley to exert himself unduly.

Mrs. Feeley realized she wasn’t dreaming. “But why should I go live somewhere else?” Mrs. Feeley cried aloud. “This is my home.”

Mr. Feeley ignored her frightful outburst. Mrs. Feeley obviously didn’t understand the ways of the world. Mr. Feeley had done his best to protect her, but there was only so much one could do.

Mr. Feeley threw the last bundle of venison into Mrs. Feeley’s suitcase. The bundle broke open, and, to Mrs. Feeley’s surprise, a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills spilled out. Mr. Feeley hurriedly swooped up the money and stuffed it into the suitcase. He snapped the lid shut, tied a double length of rope around it, and secured it with a square knot.

“Don’t say a word to the police about the money,” Mr. Feeley hissed. “It’s mine free and clear. By the time the bank misses it. I’ll be long gone. They’ll never trace it, and they’ll never find me,” he boasted. “All you know is, I went hunting and failed to return as scheduled. Do you understand?”

Mrs. Feeley understood. Mr. Feeley, it seemed, was a thief. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Mrs. Feeley sat there in her old red coat, her mouth hanging open like a marionette waiting for someone to supply the voice.

A look of relief spread over Mr. Feeley’s doughy face. Mrs. Feeley would let him go without a fight.

Mrs. Feeley felt scared. She had to say something.

“I got four cans of ham,” Mrs. Feeley blurted out. “They’re six for one dollar but I forgot my coupon, but the manager, who’s usually so rude but was quite pleasant tonight, told me I could bring back the coupon tomorrow and he’ll let me have the other two cans.” For as mute as she was a minute earlier, now she couldn’t make herself stop talking. Mrs. Feeley talked on and on, about Myra and the Snow Carnival, the little baby girl, and how last year on her birthday Mrs. Pringle from the bakery had made her a cake, and how much she really wanted that new iron. Mr. Feeley looked alarmed, but didn’t try to stop her. Excitement welled in Mrs. Feeley’s chest. She feared she would be sick all over herself. She felt quite mad. She couldn’t make herself stop talking.

“He isn’t going to give you two perfectly good cans of ham for nothing. He was lying to get you to shut up,” Mr. Feeley finally interrupted angrily. “You probably scared the other customers. You are quite insane, Mrs. Feeley.”

“Yes, I know.” Mrs. Feeley replied softly. “I am mad.”

Mr. Feeley seemed a little startled by this admission. Then he smiled his false little banker’s smile. He was done here and wanted business to move along. “Suppose you go upstairs and make sandwiches for my trip. There’s no use letting good food go to waste,” he suggested.

Mrs. Feeley, to her astonishment, didn’t move. She sat still as a lamb, feeling the thump thump thump of her heart as it beat under the worn wool of her one good coat. She flushed with embarrassment when she realized Mr. Feeley was right about the store manager. She shook her head. “I am mad,” she said aloud, more to herself than to Mr. Feeley.

Mr. Feeley chortled triumphantly. “Mrs. Feeley,” he said, “you have no common sense. God knows what’s going to happen to you when I’m gone.” Mrs. Feeley took a good look at Mr. Feeley. His forehead was glistening with sweat, much like the fat on a strip of bacon as it sizzled in Mrs. Feeley’s griddle. Mr. Feeley liked bacon; he liked it a lot.

“You mustn’t believe everything everyone tells you,” he added in a friendly tone that showed he was full of concern for Mrs. Feeley’s welfare. Mr. Feeley prided himself on his ability to steer people in the right direction. It was his job.

Mrs. Feeley smiled. A small smile. “I won’t,” she assured Mr. Feeley. Then she reached into the paper sack and took out a can of spiced ham. Mr. Feeley’s favorite sandwich spread on sale now at the Piggly-Wiggly, six cans for one dollar, and held it in her hand. Mrs. Feeley had never noticed before how closely Mr. Feeley resembled the cartoon pig on the label. She must remember to mention it to Myra someday.

Mrs. Feeley pitched her hand back and hurled the can right at Mr. Feeley, striking him right between his small, watery, blue, close-set eyes.

Mr. Feeley stood there, stunned. A trickle of blood ran down his bulbous red nose. Mrs. Feeley had surprisingly strong arms for such a tiny woman. All that ironing.

Mr. Feeley’s thin lips fell apart, making a perfect “O,” but no sound emerged. Mr. Feeley looked just like a goldfish, Mrs. Feeley decided. She had never really liked fish, they seemed so cold and slimy. A friendly little dog would suit her much better.

Mrs. Feeley plucked another can of spiced ham from the bag and pitched it right at Mr. Feeley’s rather large head. Mr. Feeley stumbled backward, lost his footing, and fell heavily against the sharp side of the stainless-steel deep-freeze, striking his head with a loud crack.

Mrs. Feeley sat frozen to the step. After a while, Mr. Feeley’s low moans turned to gurgles and his shallow breathing stopped. A bad smell wafted toward Mrs. Feeley. It was the smell of death. Mrs. Feeley was well acquainted with that odor, having spent many hours in that dark cellar wielding a sharp cleaver over some poor beast destined for the deep-freeze.

Mrs. Feeley sighed. She had never wanted this enormous appliance in her house, but Mr. Feeley had said she must live with it and so she had.

Friday, Mrs. Feeley, of 37 Badger Avenue, boarded the bus for Cleveland. This was her first trip since her honeymoon, when she and Mr. Feeley had stayed in his cousin’s cabin at nearby Bear Lake. This time Mrs. Feeley might never come back. There was no law against it, after all. By Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. Mr. Feeley’s absence from the bank would be cause for concern. A bank official would come to the house and find it deserted. Mr. Feeley, it seemed, had gone on a hunting trip and had never come home. His theft would surface eventually, but by then it would be too late. Mr. Feeley would be long gone.

The house would be sold to pay the back taxes. The threadbare furnishings would be hauled away by the junk man. Mrs. Mertz, who had taught home economics for thirty-five years and so knew all there was to know about spoilt food, would keep the rump roast Mrs. Feeley had wrapped for the deep-freeze only last week but would know to throw away the large quantity of three-year-old pork, marked in Mrs. Feeley’s tidy hand. Mrs. Mertz would think Mrs. Feeley had fallen down on her duty as a homemaker, keeping old meat like that around, but it couldn’t be helped.

Mrs. Mertz would find four empty cans stacked neatly on the drainer, but no other sign of the Feeleys. While it would come as a shock that Mr. Feeley was a thief, it would surprise no one that Mrs. Feeley had disappeared along with him. She always was such a devoted wife.

Mrs. Feeley smoothed the skirt of her one good suit, a lightweight black crepe she took out of mothballs only for weddings and funerals, and tucked her shoes out of sight under her seat. They were so worn the leather was paper-thin and cracked in places. She had had no room for any of her clothes as her only suitcase had already been packed, by Mr. Feeley. The suitcase was at her feet where she could keep an eye on it, although the chances of anyone stealing a worn pasteboard box with a rope holding it together seemed slim.

In a paper sack on her lap was the lovely rayon housecoat and matching slippers from Myra and four tasty spiced-ham sandwiches, wrapped in wax paper. Mrs. Feeley had been too excited to eat a proper breakfast, and there was no telling when the driver would stop for a snack. Besides, there was no sense letting food go to waste.