Murphy's Lawn

Denise Mullins-Murphy couldn’t bear to tell her husband, but she was experiencing the early symptoms of a mid-life crisis, and it was merciless. Every other night, she lay in their king-sized bed, awake, agonizing over the usual business that was her life: driving her daughter to her Irish step dance lessons in rush-hour traffic, baking fresh cookies for her son’s Boy Scout troop on Thursday, submitting an article for The Murphy Review before the weekly deadline, and, when she did manage to fall asleep, waking up with a palpitating heart, her bumpy skin cold and damp from her own sweat.

Rest, her physician had told her after she listed her symptoms, You need to get some rest.

Rest. Oh, how desperately Denise desired it, but her buzzing mind wouldn’t let her have it. Sleep wasn’t rest. Hell, sleep wasn’t even sleep; it was an eerie state of existing without clarity, without distraction, and without company.

Sure, she had her husband, snoring loudly to the right of her, but he hardly counted as company. Every night he cradled his wife in his arms, but, as he inevitably gave in to the spell of exhaustion, his steady grip loosened, his arms retreated to his sides, and his round body rolled across the mattress. Even on the other side of the bed, his body was still mere feet from hers, close enough for her to caress with her toe if she stretched her leg, but his consciousness was far, far away.

“Babe,” Denise said, “Babe.”

Robert Murphy grunted and pulled the satin comforter over his head to drown out his wife’s shrill, high-pitched voice.

"Oh, sorry if I woke you." Denise exhaled.

Conscious or unconscious, it didn’t matter. Her husband never listened to a damn word she had to say. She reached for the framed photograph of them on their wedding day, held it with both hands, and concentrated on his face. Robert Murphy wasn’t smiling in the photograph, but his mouth was slightly open, his ear was turned to her, and his eyes twinkled in anticipation of what she was going to say next. This thirty-year-old wearing plaid suspenders under a tuxedo jacket was the real Robby, the best version of the man she devoted her life to twenty-seven years ago; he was perky, diligent, and ravenous for his wife.

“Robby, did you put the trash can by the curb?” Denise said to the photograph. She spoke at a low volume to not wake her slumbering husband. “It’s Tuesday night, and the garbage man comes every Wednesday at 7:15 AM.”

She squinted her eyes at the bedroom window that overlooked their front lawn. The artificial turf was still covered in snow, and, just as she had suspected, the trash can was not in the appropriate spot.

“Not yet, Dee,” she imitated her husband’s low, gravelly voice as she gently shook the photograph. She imagined that Robby was shaking his head like a puppy drying itself after a bath. She found the predictability of his movements endearing. “I had a long day at work, but I’ll take care of that right now.”

Carrying the photograph, Denise opened her husband’s closet. An unorganized mass of clothes, shoes, and neckties poured out onto the bedroom floor. Did Robert Murphy even care that Denise had spent hours tidying his mess last Sunday? She groaned and looked at photograph Robby’s innocent face for an explanation.

“Robby, what happened?” she said, “I worked so hard making everything nice and neat for you.”

“It’s been a hectic week, Dee,” Denise said quietly in that husky voice, waving the picture frame as if it were one of her Barbie dolls from her childhood and she were making it talk, “I’ll clean that up after I deal with the trash.” She pressed Robby’s laminated mouth against her cheek, puckered her lips, and made a smooching sound. When she concentrated hard enough, it almost felt like a real kiss. Almost.

Denise took Robert Murphy’s bulky, grey winter coat off the wooden hanger and picked up a brown fedora hat and a striped necktie from the closet floor. Her husband hadn’t worn that necktie or that hat in years. They were old anniversary gifts.

As Denise put on the oversized coat one arm at a time, she blinked away tears. “Don’t cry, Dee,” she imagined Robby speaking these words to her and running his fingers through her greying hair, “I’m going to wear them again tonight. As a matter of fact, I’ll put them on right now. You know I love your taste in fashion.”

“You know I love-” she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her short, brown-grey hair was tucked into the fedora, the necktie hung loosely around her slender neck, and the extra fabric of the coat sleeves was bunched up at her wrists, exposing her small, clammy hands. “I love you.”

That frail, monotone voice she spoke those three words in didn’t sound like her Robby, and it didn’t sound like her either. She couldn’t tell whom those words were for and whom they were from.

“Goddamnit, woman,” Denise swallowed a gulp of air and clenched her hands into fists. “Just take out the trash.”

She kissed the framed photograph and gently placed it back on top of the bedside table. She thought of kissing Robert Murphy, too, but he barked at her whenever she disturbed his sleep, no matter the reason, so she resisted the temptation and tip-toed to the door.

Before walking out into the hallway, Denise made sure to check her surroundings. She couldn’t have her two twelve-year old children knowing that their mother was sneaking out of the house at three o’clock in the morning, dressed in their father’s clothes. What on Earth would she tell them? That she was bored? That she felt safer walking outside at this hour dressed in men’s clothing? Or that she cherished the lingering scent of shaving cream on the coat collar and the memory of Robby putting this coat around her shoulders when they walked out of the airport during their honeymoon in Alaska?

No, she could never tell her children that. Simply thinking about it made her chest ache from the weight of her strong, melancholy desire. Never mind saying it out loud.

Denise blinked her eyes dry again and wiped her nose with a handkerchief from the coat’s left breast pocket. It still had marinara sauce stains from the spaghetti and meatballs Robert Murphy ate last month with his coworker “Vicky” at Fellicino’s Kitchen.

“Vicky Sanchez is just a friend,” she sniffled, stepping into the dimly lit garage. She thought of Vicky’s large, voluptuous breasts and winced as her bare feet touched the cold, concrete floor. Although Denise could never find a picture of Vicky on the internet, she was certain that Vicky was very well-endowed, much more endowed than she was.

“Get a grip, woman,” Her voice trembling, Denise walked towards the trash can, “Vicky Sanchez is a lesbian and she’s just a friend.” She lifted the lid, closed her fingers over her palm, and pantomimed throwing away a small piece of garbage.

“You have to take those toxic thoughts and throw them into the trash,” she heard a shrink say on T.V. once, “Grab that jealousy by the hooves and put her in the trash like the filthy whore she is.”

Those words didn’t make much sense, but they made Denise feel as if she had agency, as if she weren’t an automaton programmed by her nagging anxiety and loneliness. She was a grown woman in control of her own feelings.

She took hold of the trash can and flicked a switch. The garage door opened, and she strolled outside without checking for witnesses. All her neighbors were elderly, and it was impossible for their old eyes to recognize Denise Mullins-Murphy wearing her husband’s clothes in the dark.

Denise rolled the trash can to the end of the wide driveway and stopped. Her job was done, but she wasn’t ready to go back inside. The sensation of the chilly air blowing on her face had revitalized her, and the winter atmosphere was breathtaking.

The blanket of snow on the lawn glistened like the diamond on her lost engagement ring. Three years ago, it fell down the drain as she was taking a shower. She rubbed her naked ring finger and remembered that Robert Murphy promised he would buy her another one.

“But that was three years ago, you lying bastard!” The words escaped her mouth without warning and reverberated around the block, taunting her and forcing her to accept them as the truth. Her husband was a bastard. A lying, lazy, distant, ungrateful bastard. And she knew it this whole time.

Denise cupped her tingling hand over her mouth and fell to the ground. Tears streamed down her cheek as she crawled across the dry asphalt to the end of her lawn.

“Robby is the one I love.” She picked up fistfuls of snow, pounded them into two spherical shapes, and put one sphere on top of the other. “Robert Murphy is a bastard.”

Denise Mullins jabbed two holes into the top sphere of snow and drew a curved line underneath with her fingernail. She took off the fedora and the necktie and gave them to her snowman. His smile seemed to widen as she tied the necktie into a knot. Finally, someone showed appreciation for her gifts.

“You’re my Robby.” She hugged her snow-husband close and sniffled into its chest. The cold stung her nostrils, but she felt more comforted cuddling up to a pile of snow than her own living, breathing, human husband. “And Robby is the one I love.”

With the sleeve of Robert’s coat, she wiped the clear snot dripping from her nose. She tried to balance the coat on snow-Robby’s back, but it kept falling to the ground.

“Goddammit, Robby. It’s okay. We’ll keep each other warm.” Half-chuckling, she cradled his head in her hands and pressed her forehead against his, her tears and her snot intermingling on his frozen face. “Tell Robert I want a divorce.”