-
The Wife Who Lived on Wind
- University of Arizona Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
127 The Wife Who Lived on Wind How many times can you chew air? If it is a knot of wind, I can gnaw on it a hundred times. If it is a bone of wind, I swallow it with a slice of bread so it won’t get stuck in my throat. I am the Fabulous Florentina Scaltra! Contessa of Clouds! Duchess of the Dolomites! Marquesa di Alpini! And yes, once the pride of the late Circus Imbroglione. And I’m an ogress married to the basest human being you can imagine. He bought me from the circus for the price of a bottle of beer. I don’t have green skin or warts. My skin is as pale as a toad’s belly. My eyes shine like pebbles under running water. My hair is golden and curly as a snail’s tail. I was billed as more beautiful than the world-famous ogress Chantilly. My husband is no less than Mr. Banker, the man who owns the shoe store and the cobbler therein; the Cozy Inn and its inmates, the maids and cook; the hoosegow and its sole occupant, Crazy Daisy; and the bakery, whose aromas I dine on as I pass. Mr. Banker’s first wife let money slip through her fingers like water. She loved clothes and wore several outfits at one time. The shoes matched the necklace ; the necklace matched the earrings; the purse matched the belt; the dress matched her eye color. She peeled off her outfits as the day wore on. She was a Russian doll of a woman, getting smaller and smaller until he kicked her out, penniless and naked. His second wife burned holes in their bank account as she redecorated the house into a showcase of fairy-tale taste. She had sofas made of white swan feathers that captured the guests in suffocating softness. She papered the walls in red 128 velvet and gold lamé cloth. Underfoot, she layered costly rugs woven by child slaves. She was careless with her own children and lost several among the hall of mirrors before Mr. Banker draped the glossy surfaces with scarves and kicked her out like an uncovered couch onto the curb. He hung a sign around her neck: free, as is, no delivery. His third wife was earthy. She was a big woman, not as big as me, of course, but passable. She ate clay. She stuffed mouthfuls between her brown teeth, roared at Mr. Banker’s jokes, and liked to lift her skirts like a cancan dancer when she went shopping. She was a rollicking woman with red cheeks and loose lips. She wore a gin bottle like a second nose. She had thighs that swished together when she strutted, driving Mr. Banker crazy with lust, and her breasts were like two hillocks. He would’ve kept her but she had a fault. A serious one. She raided his wallet every chance she could get and would bury his money in secret holes, earthenchambersofcash,nointerest,andcertainlynotavailableforwithdrawals. Because she had a brain like a pebble, she couldn’t find her deposits. She barely found her own tongue every day. She was as stupid as sand. He kicked her out one day after he’d spent all of his two-week vacation digging up the expanse of the manor-sized lawn. When it started raining, the holes overfilled and water spouted from them like breaching whales. He booted her out into the rain, where she stood for two hours, mascara streaming down her cheeks, hair plastered to her skull. Finally, she gave up and threw the gin bottle into the plate glass window, shattering it into a million fauxdiamond pieces. She stomped off and that was that. No more wives, he decided. Women always wanted to spend money. They make reasons to spend it. They take and take and leave Mr. Banker with the bills. This is what he told me when he brought me home. “I want a wife who will live on wind.” And then he took me to bed. That’s why he finally gave in and got a wife. He’s a sex addict and refuses to get counseling. He needs a wife but he doesn’t want one. Therein lies a conflict. When you need what you hate and hate what you need, well, I don’t have to tell you my life is brutal. AsanogressIamusedtobeinglaughedat.Clumsy.Oaf.Giantess.Ugly.Freak. At the circus, I lived with...