The Transformation

One morning, after a night of uneasy dreams, Terrence Kletke woke up to find his wife transformed into a giant insect. There she was, lying there, with a great number of little legs twitching uselessly. She must have been awake for a while because she was very frustrated with him indeed.

“Oh, you’ve woken up finally!” she exclaimed, in a rasping, high-pitched voice, which was different, but not that much different from her usual voice. “I was calling to you over and over again but you sleep so deeply and snore so loudly, you just wouldn’t wake up, and I couldn’t poke you awake because… well, look at me! Some very horrible condition has come over me. I can only wiggle these hideous legs and probe around with these outlandish antennae. I do hope I get over this soon. It better not be some lingering thing, like that severe case of flu I had last Christmas.”

Terrence, now fully awake, was horrified by the sight of his wife, but only slightly more than usual. The most critical thing now, she said to him, was getting ready for the Glenora Club’s Annual Charity Ball for Cerebral Palsy. Mrs. Kletke was very chagrined because a special dress had been designed for her for this occasion, and now it would have to be utterly altered, and who knew if there was even time? She ordered Terrence to call Maria – their househelp – and get her over immediately. Maria was not the dress designer – the designer was far too busy and important to call today, at the last minute – however, the smart little maid was very handy with a needle and thread and sewing machine and could well be of help.

Maria arrived an hour later, by which time, Terrence had figured out how to get his wife out of bed and onto the floor, where she scuttled about, tentatively at first, testing her new legs, then with increasing confidence. When Maria came to the door, Mrs. Kletke was so excited that she ran up and provoked a shriek of alarm. Terrence had to explain everything in order to calm Maria down.

“Don’t be scared, Maria,” he said. “That’s not a dung beetle, that’s my wife. She is not herself… Well, she’s still mostly herself, but as you can see, in light of her current condition – which we’re sure will pass – she needs rather more help than usual. In short, you must get to work quickly, Maria, because the charity ball is at seven and her dress must be adjusted well before then. You know how she’s waited for this event for months. Aside from the spring parade, the ball is her biggest social do of the year.”

Maria rapidly understood the situation and calmed down and did just as she was told. First, she took Mrs. Kletke’s new measurements. She even indulged the poor woman with a few words of flattery. “I think you are very much smaller in the waist now,” she said. Mrs. Kletke’s beak quivered appreciatively. Next, Maria took the dress and traced out on it the shapes she would have to cut for the new, insect-friendly version. Then she took the scissors to it. Oh, what a trying moment it was for Mrs. Kletke! She was not capable of weeping, but she did rub her tarsal claws over her mandibles with considerable vexation. It had been such a beautiful dress, and now it was being slashed apart before her eyes. However, Maria knew what she was doing, and in the following hours, a new outfit began to gradually and unwaveringly take form. There were long, sleek sleeves for each of Mrs. Kletke’s legs, and there was a billowing bodice for her thorax that was pulled in her smartly over her abdomen. All in all, when Mrs. Kletke had been helped into the outfit and had at last caught sight of herself in the mirror, she was quite pleased.

“It’s a setback, being so altered, to be sure,” she admitted to herself. “However, Maria has done an excellent job and indeed, the fabric is of such fine quality, and the print so vivid and the colours so artfully chosen, that I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the dress turns out to be the best at the ball, despite everything.”

Mr. and Mrs. Kletke thanked Maria profusely and paid her twice her usual rate. Terrence had the maid stay just a little longer so as to help him lift his wife into the back seat of the car. After that, Mara left, one-hundred and sixty dollars richer, and the Kletkes were hurrying to the ball, and so everyone was in much better spirits than previously.

At the Glenora Club, the Kletkes made quite the entrance. Terrence had to leave his wife in the car briefly and summon one of the wait staff to help him carry her out, but with this task done, the couple walked in very gracefully indeed. Mrs. Kletke was now quite adjusted to her transformed figure and walked with all of her legs moving in perfect unison, and her dress didn’t drag on the path, not even for a second. Naturally, when they entered the hall, the town’s elite were much amazed at the sight of them. Mr. Wrigley, the head of the chamber of commerce, was the first to greet them. He exclaimed, “Good God!” and then he caught himself, slapped a hand to his mouth because he knew he had been impolite. Mrs. Kletke cocked her shiny head and cheerfully said hello.

“I apologize if I gave you a scare,” she said. “Some unusual condition has come over me, but we’re sure it will pass soon, and as you know, I won’t let anything prevent me from attending the annual cerebral palsy do! It’s absolutely the most exciting night of the year for me.”

Mr. Wrigley had recomposed himself and his wife had joined him, holding two glasses of French Merlot, and these two pillars of the community, aware that all eyes were on them, ensured that they displayed to Mr. and Mrs. Kletke the warmest of welcomes and pleasantries. Indeed, allowing for a short period of adjustment from the general crowd, the Kletkes could not have asked for a more generous reception.

“That’s a wonderful outfit,” said Mrs. Wrigley, and this was only the first of many compliments that Mrs. Kletke lapped up. Her maxillary palps were practically dripping with a viscous discharge, so happy was she. Of course, when dinner was served, she found the fricassé de rognons most unpalatable, and she had to be served a plate of vegetable peelings on the floor, and she missed out on an engaging conversation about the recent curious behavior of the province’s premier, but she wasn’t too put out… Politics wasn’t her thing, anyway. Already the function was a success, in her view, because she had gotten exactly fifteen compliments on her dress and was quite likely to get a good deal more before the evening drew to a close.

When it came time to leave, Terrence was a little tipsy. As for his wife, she was downright drunk with delight. “Such a wonderful evening… Such a wonderful evening,” she repeated in her rasping voice. Mr. Wrigley offered to drive with the Kletkes to their home and catch a cab back afterwards so that he could help load and unload Mrs. Kletke. “Such a kind man,” gushed Mrs. Kletke. And so it was that they arrived safely at their comfortable house, glowing with good humour and maybe even a little sleepy from all the excitement.

Now usually, after these grand functions, which occurred a handful of times a year, the tension that was typical of the Kletkes’ marriage would melt away and in their tipsy and exuberant state, they were quite likely to make love. Tonight, however, as swimmingly as things had gone and as merry as they were with each other, Terrence could not find it in himself to make an advance on her. Moreover, even if he had been in the mood, he would not have known where or how to do it. His wife’s new body was a mystery to him. So after undressing and helping her out of her outfit, he simply snuggled into bed with her and fell fast asleep.

The next day, Mrs. Kletke was very depressed. So glorious had the previous evening been that regular life was quite dull by comparison. She had never – not even before becoming an insect – received such high praise for her dresses. When she scuttled into the bathroom and examined her appearance, unadorned, her spirits only worsened. After a breakfast of rotten apples from the garden, she pleaded with her husband to help her get her dress back on. That improved her frame of mind a little, but all the same, it did seem awfully miserly to have to wear the same outfit two days running. Thank goodness she didn’t need to go out today and would be spared the looks of her neighbours.

Naturally, she commissioned an entire new wardrobe from her designer. For the Parisian-born Manon van de Majesté, creating new fashions for the insect figure was an exciting and challenging new task, and she dropped all her other projects. She designed for Mrs. Kletke some clothes for the garden, clothes for shopping, “activewear,” business attire, evening gowns, even lingerie. Out of all her outfits, Mrs. Kletke liked the elegant gowns the best. Indeed, increasingly, they were the only clothes she deigned to put on in the morning. The fact of the matter is, she was becoming a bit of a prima donna.

In light of her new and now evidently permanent insect physique, a subtle psychological change was happening in this proud woman. She loathed the sight of herself and complained of her appearance in the mirror, which was normal, but now she indulged to the extreme her taste for finery in order to compensate for her self doubts. Moreover, she sought with heightened frequency the praise of others. Terrence’s praise was not enough. Oh no… He could say a thousand flattering things; she said he didn’t mean them. Instead, with the help of Maria, she devoted hours to her wardrobe every morning, then she would feel compelled to go out in public where people could admire her. She grew to depend on their stares and pointing fingers to have any sense of herself at all. Even though she couldn’t play tennis, she sunned herself with rich people at the tennis courts. She also mixed with the very best types down at the golf course, weather permitting. She spent hours in malls, entire afternoons in ritzy cafes, and for as long as eyes were fixed on her, she felt vital, needed, alive. Because of her unique appearance, not to mention her relentless good taste in fashion, she aroused a lot of attention. One day, to her joy, rather than National Geographic or American Science booking an appointment to photograph and interview her, it was a lady from Vogue. What a thrill! The night before the meeting, she could hardly sleep. Her mandibles were gnashing with a mixture of euphoria and apprehension. Terrence was so put off by her freakish sounds that he eventually got up and went to sleep in the den.

The day of the photo shoot was a success. Mrs. Kletke wore a hot pink number with delicate lacy ruffles that complemented her greyish-blue body armour perfectly. The lady from Vogue was charming. “We’re going to put you on the cover, dear,” she said. And so they did. There was Mrs. Kletke, preening herself from the cover of Vogue in stores all over North America. She became a sensation. More photo shoots were arranged. They called her the new Twiggy. She was beside herself with elation. Previously, she’d been a rather formless woman, much like a sack of flour. But now her hard little limbs were the hottest thing going. She took much greater care of herself than before. She did furious little laps around the backyard. The only downside to having suddenly become famous was that even when she wanted privacy, such as during these intense bursts of exercise, the paparazzi would be there – their cameras flashing away.

“Such are the sacrifices of fame,” she would sigh.

But privately, as Terrence knew all too well, she was more self-conscious than ever – morbidly so, in fact, even to the point of hysteria on occasion. In the beginning of her insect life, he had felt a measure of duty to stand by her side. Now, however, there seemed to be nothing he could do for her. She depended not on him, but on the adulation of the public. With a very heavy heart, he came into her room one night (they now slept apart), and as her personal trainer applied some sort of ointment to one of the numerous joints in one of her legs (she had exercised rather too much that day), Terrence said he was going to leave her.

“Leave me?” she hissed, and she was very good at hissing nowadays – even better than she had been before, in fact – and Terrence was rather afraid of her. “Who are you to leave me?”

Terrence bowed his head humbly and mumbled something – she couldn’t hear what – and he tried to keep his eyes away from the disgusting ritual with the ointment.

“Speak up!” she said. “I can’t hear you!”

He could not say a word. Admit the truth… that she in fact repulsed him, when the rest of the world seemingly revered her? He could not admit to such a thing. Nor could he admit to his feelings of inadequacy now that she had no use for him.

“Well,” she said at last. “I certainly feel sorry for you. It’s me that’s the big earner now. Not you. What are you? Just a little bank manager. See if you get any more interviews now. Bank managers are nothing compared to the husbands of famous models… But it’s your choice. So be it. I always sensed a little jealousy, anyway.”

Terrence had never relished the “Married to a Dung Beetle” interviews and he didn’t consent to doing them anymore, so he hardly responded to these threats. There was, to be frank, nothing he was going to miss about her. In fact, he maybe should have thought of doing this earlier, even before her metamorphosis. Certainly, life had changed radically, but only in the sense that the things that had always troubled their marriage had simply been intensified.

He walked out of the room. He never saw her again – at least, not in the flesh. Naturally, there was no complete escape from her… On TV, magazines, billboards, she was ubiquitous. But Terrence found solace in moving into a more modest home and renovating it to his taste. Then he found a very modest and plain woman, who was in her own way pretty, if you looked hard enough for it, and they were quite happy together. Sometimes though, in the morning, she would shrink from the sunlight and hide her face from him. “I wonder from time to time,” she would say, “Why you ever left a glamorous fashion model and settled for someone like me.”
This time around, Terrence did not give up the effort of reassuring her as he had with Mrs. Kletke, because he sensed that it would always be this way, and the best that you could do was simply be there… be there, in spite of everything, because being alone was worse, and in the end, a little human sympathy was the only comfort you had as you approached the end of your years.

Postcard Story II: The Kitchen Sink

The dishwater has gone from hot to lukewarm to cold. Her fingers are dimpled and when she holds them up to the light, it seems as if she is about to slough off an unnecessary layer of skin. She detects the odour of pork fat and cooking grease mixed with the lemon whiff of dish soap. It is such an awful smell. It is the smell of yesterday’s deceased dinner. The lemon smell is clinical, like the odour of embalming.

Outside, a magpie has landed on the fragile branch of the poplar sapling that her husband planted three years ago. It is April, and the snow has melted from all but the very deepest corners of the yard. She watches the magpie open its beak and squawk. They stay all winter long, these cruel-looking birds with ugly voices.

She cannot finish the dishes. The magpie keeps up its screeching. What the hell’s your problem? It is too bad that there is a pane of glass between her and the yard, otherwise she’d throw something at the critter. She looks down into the sink, trying to ignore the magpie. An archipelago of pork-fat islands is adrift in the water. She feels a little unwell. Maybe she should lie down and deal with the dishes later.

But then she hears the car in the driveway. Her husband is coming home. He didn’t stay at work as late as she had hoped. She thrusts her hands into the water again. She jabs her thumb on the end of a knife. The pain is short, clean, and precise. She sucks in a half-second of air.

Even with an inky cloud of blood spreading, she suddenly goes back to her work with renewed vigour. Her husband is unlocking the front door. He will call out her name, take off his shoes with a shoe horn, take off his coat, carefully hang it up in the closet, and then creep up the hallway stealthily in his socks, like a burglar. She won’t show him the wound. He overreacts to such things and tries to baby her, because he is in all other ways, impotent.

The wound is hers and hers alone.

Revisions to Winter Dream

This might not be of interest to anyone, but I do intend to conduct some of my editing process online, as it were. Changes that I have made to a story subsequent to posting it will be noted in an update.

Hence, already -- there are changes to yesterday's story. A line of dialogue has been altered. The dark woman now says:
"You are safe now. That is all that matters to you." (added)

And another thing. It should be called "Winter Dream" (singular), not only because there is one dream, but because "Winter Dreams" is the title of a story by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Postcard Story I: Winter Dreams

Nathaniel awoke from a strange dream. He had been in a bazaar in the centre of a village in the middle-east. The sun had stared mercilessly at the pomegranates, artichokes and entire lambs speckled with fat. There had been flies buzzing everywhere. The beautiful dark woman with whom Nathaniel had been walking had suddenly disappeared. He was alone in the crowd. There were sharp, bright colours overwhelming his senses: a tradesman hawking a glinting silver dagger, a sudden flash of radiance of moving water – what was it? – someone splashing the face of an infant, and then, as he broke out from the shade, the intensely azure sky struck him.

Something was happening.

A thin man moved into the shadows under the awning of a café. He wore a t-shirt splattered with something, and corduroy trousers so frayed that they were little more than rags. He was shouting. Nathaniel looked around again for the dark woman. He knew her – he didn’t know how – and she would explain this to him. But she wasn’t there. The thin man had a jerry can of fuel. He was shaking it over himself, dousing his hair and shoulders, and now he had fallen silent, as had the entire bazaar, as if bearing respectful witness to a ceremony.

The thin man lit a match. He started to burn. Fiery tufts of his hair drifted to the ground. Flames engulfed his body. The crowd was watching. But now someone in their midst had decided to do something. He wrenched away the pail of water from the mother and the mewling infant and ran at the burning man. He threw water onto the flames but they did not die. The entire crowd was stirred from a seeming reverie, and now there were shouts and screams, and people were running. Nathaniel was one of them. He did not know where he was going. Down this dark alley, between these two walls, until he finally found himself out of the village. He was slowed down by sand. He was on the beach.

When he looked back, smoke was belching up in mushroom clouds from the village rooftops. The fire had spread everywhere. Suddenly, the dark woman was beside him again.

“You made it,” she said.

He asked, “What happened to everyone else?”

“Probably all asphyxiated or burnt,” she said and paused, looking down briefly, as if observing a brief moment of respect. “You didn’t try to save him?”

“No,” said Nathaniel.

“You didn’t know what was going on?”

“No,” he repeated.

“It has nothing to do with you anyway,” she said. “He is not your problem. The fire is not your problem. It is OK. You are safe now. That is all that matters.”

He got out of bed, aware that his bedroom was cold. He went to the window and opened the curtain a crack. Outside, a late-March snowstorm was blowing, and the street was veiled in crystals, and everything was white and grey.

“Life is happening elsewhere,” he said to himself. “I wish I could understand it. Here there is nothing to understand. Just the little annoyances of digging out my car, and the traffic, and a long, boring day at work. But I am safe, so really I have nothing to complain about.”

All the same, when he finally left his apartment, and the bitter wind scratched at his face, he felt sorry for himself, and he wished that life could be colourful, noisy, bright… even glorious and all-consuming, like a flame.