Clause Gets Outsourced

by Jen Gregory

He sucked in for the millionth time, buckled the big black belt and took a final look in the extra-large ornate wood framed mirror. He saw rough pine floors and over sized antique furniture behind him. This room, his dressing room, was grand, luxurious in its simplicity. The lemon oil, the soft scrape of shoes on the floor, that heady fog of musk that lingers over clothes stored for long times inside cedar walls. It was magic to him. He could breathe that air, look in that mirror and muster up the courage for another year. He could believe everything said of him. This year in the grand mirror’s reflection he simply saw an old man.

“You look so wonderful in your uniform, dear.”

“Thanks,” he managed to mumble.  His voice sounding like a rock tumbler sloshing gravel around. He was tired and worn down. She stared at him with what he was afraid was pity. “I should try to look good for my own funeral, I guess.” He started laughing, the sound of thick gravel falling in chunks to the ground. It was heavy, insincere and Gertrude knew that. Still, the male ego is a fragile little instrument that every good wife knows is one discouraging comment away from total meltdown, even if your husband is one of the most well liked people in the world.

“None of this was ever about you. You couldn’t control it. Don’t blame yourself.”

Her kind brown eyes crinkled into a smile and as they did their warmth melted her two amber orbs into small pools of liquid chocolate. He was pitying himself, he saw it in the confection of her gaze, her always sweet face saying everything her kindly mouth would not.

“Buck up Clause!” at least that’s what he heard as he walked over to her and kissed her on her plump peach fuzzed cheeks, his flagrant whiskers tickling her nose. Gertrude always sneezed after a kiss from her husband. Always.  He murmured, “God Bless you” as he left.