A Night by the Fire

Grant sat in his armchair, crossing his legs and letting thick smoke emanate from his pipe and swirl around his head. Across from him there was the sound of the slow crackle of the fire in the mantle, and he could feel the heat on his face make him as red as a hot coal. Beside him sat his wife Mary, who spent her days knitting and taking care of the house while he was off at work, from eight to five every day like she was told. He stared at the fire as it crackled and moved like a fair dancer, waving from one side of the fireplace to the next, slowly eating away at the wood as it went. He could hear Mary's knitting needles snap and touch together as he watched, and he hoped that maybe she would put them away and they could watch whatever might be on the television. However, it seemed Mary was too preoccupied, and Grant had the feeling he would sleep alone while she knitted through the night.

Every evening he would come into the living room after supper to the sound of those needles, and Mary would work away at her little scarf, content. Grant occasionally asked her what sort of design she had in mind for it, but she would never answer. She would only smile as the needles clicked and clacked away, and Grant would resume his duties of smoking his pipe, staring at the television if it was on, and then return to bed with thoughts of paperwork and Mary running through his head.
Sometimes he would lie awake, listening as she toiled away on her little scarf, and wonder when she would stop and come into bed. Occasionally he thought about whether or not she wanted to go to bed with him, but he shook those thoughts away. He would stare at the dull grey ceiling in their bedroom, listening to the incessant clatter of needlework, and would instead think of what she did when he was at work. Every day he would come home to the sound of pots shuffling around in the kitchen, the fire crackling, the sight of a neatly set table, and his wife's adoring smile. But as of late he had noticed she would want to rush him out the door. “I don't want you to be late!” she would say in her sweet voice.

“I'm never late,” he would argue. “Not one day of my life have I ever been late.” But she would shoo him off and with a smile would wish him good luck. There was never “I love you” anymore. He wondered why. When he had first placed the ring around her slender finger, he couldn't remember her looking as happy as she had, dressed in her fine white gown streaked in white roses. Now there was only “good luck.” The fire crackled and started to engulf the wood in front of him.
What did she do all day? Grant couldn't imagine that cooking and cleaning could take her all of ten hours. She had long mastered the art of cleaning dishes and making a fine supper; when he saw her work she never took long to do what she was told. Perhaps she has friends over, Grant would tell himself. Josephine only lived a block away, so there was no reason that she wouldn't stop by for tea every once and a while. And Margaret and George would come over for brunch on weekends; who was to say they might not have come over to have lunch with Mary? But she would have told me, wouldn't she? What was there to hide in a lunch with George and Margaret?

He could imagine Margaret and Mary sharing stories while George sat by, listening to the radio that sat by the kitchen door. He was always courteous, and had rather striking features, what with his dark blond hair, deep blue eyes and sharp chin. He had talked with George many times, and often walked away with the impression of a very quiet man, someone who spoke only when he felt the need.

“Don't mind him, he's a man of few words,” Margaret had once said in that dull, uninterested voice of hers. George never seemed to mind her comments about him, he would only smile and nod, but then again he never quite seemed to hold hardly any interest in her at all. He did, however, hold a great interest in Mary's cooking.

“What a meal, Mary!” he had heard him say after a lunch of fish and soup. “You cook better than Margaret!” And he had reached out to kiss Mary's hand out of thanks. Mary had blushed, quickly pulling her hand away, and smiled that lovely smile of hers. Then she had glanced at Grant, and her smile disappeared as she turned to put the dishes away, just as she was told.

He remembered seeing her eyes dart back and forth between Margaret's dull gaze as she blathered on about motor cars and trips to the sea, and George's smile. His smile was ordinary, Grant remembered, but there was something in his eyes. They sparkled gold every time Mary looked at him. They shone like the little bits of flame that sprang off from the fire before him. “Mary,” Grant said calmly, his fingers tapping against his armchair. “What do you think about George?” The clatter of needlework stopped for just a brief moment, then resumed.

“Why he's a fine man, a gentleman. Why?” Grant looked at the flames, and he could feel a fire rise within him.

“No reason. Simply curious.” He quickly looked over to his side at Mary, and from the light saw a few tiny beads of sweat shining across her forehead. Her smile had vanished.

Grant set aside his pipe and rose from his chair. “Would you like it if I were to put on some music on the radio?” he asked.

“Oh, why not?” she replied, never turning to look at him. He slowly walked over to the radio, his heart beating fast. The small radio sat on a table by the door, with cool black dials and a sleek wooden finish. He put his hand on the radio, then slowly, quietly, ran his other hand down the cord and unplugged it from the wall. He took the radio in both hands and moved slowly, until he found himself standing directly behind Mary. He could feel the sweat begin to build upon his brow, and his heart beat faster than he ever thought possible. “Dear, aren't you going to put the radio on?” he heard her say as the needles clicked together.

The radio came down fast upon her. He heard her cry out, and he brought it down again. He grit his teeth as he brought it down harder, again and again and again and again. He heard a crack and she fell to the floor, her whole body shaking. The carpet was slowly turning red as he moved over her, and Grant brought the sleek, shining red radio down one more time on Mary's head.

His hands felt warm and wet as the fire shone brightly in front of them.