A Clean Disposition

Nothing irks me more than an unkempt appearance. The sight of filth on a person festers under my skin like a cystic pimple ready to burst. The only way I can keep my composure is when my dear husband, Hank, reminds me to take deep, bellowing breaths. “Deep breaths, Elizabeth. Inhale the worry, exhale the fright,” he’d always say. God bless him. He was always trying to soothe my compulsions.

You see, Hank wasn’t some guru or spiritual yogi. He was just a run of the mill neighborhood plumber. Not particularly bright, but an incredibly hard worker. Compassionate, too; charming the pants off all the old biddies around town. I loved him so. And despite his burly frame, his excess body hair, and that physically taxing job, Hank always looked put together. He always smelled fresh. He showered morning, noon, and night. His hygiene was impeccable. I couldn’t have been with him otherwise.

Every Friday night, Hank came home a little late, delayed by his quiet ritual of stopping at Ben’s flower shop to bring me roses. I always acted surprised, just to see that wide grin stretch across his face, teeth hidden beneath his thick black mustache. I’d welcome him home with open arms, and we’d embrace tenderly, smooshing the delicate petals and crinkling the brown paper wrapping between our bodies. Those were the good old days.

Ben’s shop was a quaint little place. Half greenhouse, half jungle, tucked between a laundromat and a deli that always smelled faintly of boiled meat. Ben himself was an odd sort. Well, “Ben” was more of a title than a name, really. The business had been there so long that everyone just called whoever was behind the counter “Ben.” The sign above the door had long since lost its paint, the once gold lettering now a dull, flaking brass that read “B N’S FL WRS” if you squinted hard enough. A cracked bell jingled when you pushed the heavy door open and the floor creaked underfoot, every groan of the wood adding to the shop’s peculiar charm. Buckets of wilting carnations and daisies lined the walls, their cloudy water long overdue for changing, while the roses, Hank’s roses, were always impossibly fresh, as if Ben tended to them more carefully than anything else in the place. Ben himself seemed as if he were as weathered as the shop. Hank adored him nonetheless. “Ben knows my wife better than I do,” he’d joke. So endearing he was. The both of them!

People always said we were an odd pair. Me, the tightly wound neat freak, and Hank, the happy go lucky working man. But we balanced each other out. He brought me roses and I ironed his shirts. He hummed while fixing the leaky faucet, and I scrubbed the grout lines until they were blindingly white. Sometimes, so vigorously, that my fingers would bleed and eventually callous over. He’d kiss my temple when I got lost in my rituals, or gently squeeze my hand. “Enough, Elizabeth,” he’d say. “Come sit with me. Deep breaths.”

We had little rituals like that for everything. Saturday mornings meant coffee and crossword puzzles at the kitchen table. At night, we’d cuddle up on the couch and pick out a “Midnight movie” as we called it. Sundays, he’d tend to the pipes in the basement while I deadheaded the lilies in the yard. He pretended to care about my garden, asked about my pruning, nodded along as I rattled off the different fertilizer blends I was trying out. I think he mostly liked seeing me happy, sun on my face and dirt on my overalls. It was just about the only time I didn’t abhor being sweaty, dirty, or unpresentable.

I always scoffed at those women who’d gush to their girlfriends about their husbands. “He’s my rock!” “He’s my heart and home!” they’d exclaim, swooning and clasping their hands together like they were in prayer. What in the Hallmark havin’ ass kind of honky bullshit is that? I’d think to myself. Their husbands were just regular ol’ men, barely fitting into the picture perfect mold their wives had carefully curated for them. They’d tiptoe around their wives’ neuroses, demand a warm meal the moment they got home, then kick their smelly feet up after a long day of “hard work.” Occasionally, they’d toss out some hollow praise for an overcooked brisket or a half‑baked potato. Fitting, really. Most of them seemed pretty half‑baked themselves. Their personalities barely scratched the surface, the kind of small talk men who leave you itching for substance the minute you walk away.

But without ever admitting to such a trope, my husband was my rock. He didn’t need to fit into any mold. He came perfectly prepackaged, ready made, ready to rock and roll. But would I ever speak those words aloud? Fat chance.

It wasn’t until the fruits and vegetables in my garden began to flourish that I truly came to grips with his untimely death. Poor Hank. That beautiful fool. All this reminiscing, but I really should be plucking the overgrown lettuce for my afternoon salad. Betrayal makes me famished.

You know, when I discovered that Ben was really a “Betty,” and that Hank’s trips to the flower shop carried a far more nefarious purpose than I’d ever imagined, I couldn’t seem to draw in enough air to steady myself. The deep breaths that once soothed me had become sharp, splintering gasps. They sat lodged in my chest like a heavy confusion I couldn’t swallow.

It’s a good thing Hank and his mistress planned that expensive little getaway to that one generic foreign country. I hear human trafficking over there is dreadful. An all time high, the news said.

It made for the perfect assumption about their disappearance. Dead bodies are so disgusting, and sordid. That’s why I chose to bury them in the garden. Best fertilizer I’ve ever used.

“Isn’t that right, my darlings?” I coo, crouching low, running my fingers along the fat, glistening tomatoes. “You’ll keep my secret, won’t you? Deep breaths now. Inhale the worry, exhale the fright.”