Marsha's Deal

by Laura Solomon

  “Your task”, said Satan, with a hiss, “is to visit earth and tempt foolish naïve humans into committing one of the seven deadly sins. You have just seven days to complete your mission. The sins will be allocated as follows. Screech you will take Isobel and gluttony. Tig, you will go disguised as a counsellor called Madeline and tempt Aaron, playing on his lust. Kill, you are to pretend to be a ballerina named Bridget - you are chalked up to target Natalie the ballerina (the devil executed a parodic pirouette) and her excessive pride. Death you are running a homeless shelter – you are taking Cousin Andrew and his sloth. Now, Aunt Abbey….”

  The devil tapped his teeth with his pen.

  “Let's see who did I have down for Aunt Abbey. Ah yes, Fire, you will take Aunt Abbey whose downfall will be her envy. You are to run a rival hairdressing salon directly opposite hers. Then we have Uncle Murray and his wrath. Jules, I'd like you to target him. Finally, we have Friend Karen and her terrible greed, for that I had down you Ice, could you please take Karen and wreak destruction in her life.”

  * * *

  The entry form was in the back of Women's Day. Win a year's supply of Devilishly Good chocolate. Just write in with your favourite chocolate recipe to be our lucky winner. Unbeknown to Isobel, the competition was being run by one of the devil's minion's, Screech. Isobel wrote in with her favourite recipe – chocolate muffins with cream cheese and a piece of chocolate in the middle. Four weeks later she heard back that her original recipe had been chosen to feature in the new Devilishly Good recipe book and that she was the winner of a year's supply of chocolate. Screech had rigged it. The chocolate was delivered by truck. It backed up the driveway at 7am on a Saturday morning. Isobel was up dressed, ready and waiting, standing at the window with a mug of coffee. She had cleaned out her spare room in order to devote it to the chocolate – a shrine. Two big strong men carried in five boxes of Devilishly Good chocolate and took it into the room. The chocolate was wrapped in red wrappers. Isobel thanked them for their troubles, watering at the mouth, eager to get to her stash. The devil was working on her greed. Each box of chocolate was a different flavour. Isobel picked up a bar of chocolate, looked closely at it and saw that it had expired. She realised that the competition had just been a ploy by Devilishly Good to get rid of a whole lot of expired chocolate.

  Isobel developed an extremely unhealthy relationship with the chocolate, similar to that of Golem and the ring in Lord of the Rings. To her the chocolate was precious. She guarded it with her life. Within two months Isobel had gained 20kg of weight. She began talking to the chocolate. In the morning 'Good morning chocolate, how are you feeling this fine morning?' and last thing at night, 'Good night chocolate, sweet dreams.'

  She caught her husband eating a bar of the good stuff while watching TV.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?” Isobel spat. “That's my chocolate. How dare you help yourself to my stash!!”

  Aaron told her she needed to see a counsellor. He booked her in with Madelaine Rogers for the following Tuesday.

  The counsellor was located in an old house on the outskirts of Wellington. Isobel didn't stay in the appointment for long – just long enough for Aaron to tell the counsellor about her chocolate obsession. It was Aaron who stayed the course. At the end of the session he gave the counsellor his number. She called him a week later. He whinged and he moaned that his wife's affections for him had been supplanted by chocolate. The final straw was when she started sleeping in the same room as the chocolate, bars of chocolate clasped in her hands. Aaron realised he could not compete with the chocolate any longer. The devil began working on Aaron's lust. He had been replaced by chocolate, so he would replace her. He was jealous of the attention she gave the chocolate. He felt replaced by an inanimate object and he didn't like the feeling. Isobel had changed.

  He was at the pub drowning his sorrows when Madelaine called.

  “Just checking up on how it's going with your wife and her chocolate obsession. I have some reading material on obsessions you might be interested in.”

  “Great. When can I pick the reading material up?”

  “I won't be in the office this week, but how about we meet for coffee at Café Affair?”

  Aaron felt a twinge of happiness – for the first time in ages he was getting some real attention.

  The following Wednesday, Aaron made his way to Café Affair. Madeleine was looking lovely; she had dressed up for the occasion. She was wearing a red dress with a black butterfly brooch and bright red lipstick. Aaron had no idea that she was a devil in disguise.

  “You look like a million dollars”, said Aaron.

  “Why thank you”, she answered.

  They talked for two hours, getting along like a burning house. Soon the staff were sweeping up around them. They looked around and saw that everybody had gone and the café was closing. The place had emptied out.

  They climbed into Aaron's car and drove to Oriental Parade. It was a lovely night for a stroll and they were both feeling buoyant; high on the buzz of each other's company. They walked along the promenade and then back. Once they were in Aaron's car again, Madeline asked if he wanted to come back to her house for a drink. Aaron did not say no. Madeline lived in Kelburn near the top of the cable car in an old wooden villa built in the 1930s with big bay windows and a beautiful flower garden where freishas bloomed alongside orange roses, carnations and lilies. She turned the key in the lock and pushed open the front door. Aaron stepped inside, noticing how tidy the place was. Isobel had let their place turn into a shambles lately – it was nice to be with a lady who took pride in the appearance of her house. Madeline opened the drinks cabinet and asked Aaron what he wanted to drink. Aaron asked for a Scotch on the rocks. They drank and talked into the night, discussing Isobel and how unhappy Aaron was in his home life (a manipulative ploy on Madeline's part). Unprofessionally, Madeline discussed some of the more unusual cases she had come across in her counselling. Aaron stayed the night without a feeling of guilt. In hell, the devil rubbed his hands with glee.

  At home Isobel sat up late into the night, eating chocolate and wondering where Aaron was. The chocolate could not fill the hole inside her, could not fill the void. She called Aaron's cellphone at 6pm, 7pm, 8pm, 8.15pm and 8.45pm. As Aaron's bad luck would have it, one of Isobel's friends, Karen, spotted Aaron's car outside Madeline's house and called up Isobel to tell her. Isobel burst into tears.

  “That rat!” she exclaimed.

  She asked the friend to come and pick her up and drive her to the scene of the crime. Karen arrived fifteen minutes later.

  “Come on then”, she said. “Jump in the car.”

  Isobel, teary-eyed, hopped into the vehicle.

  They drove up to Kelburn. Isobel began fuming again when she saw Aaron's car.

  “He's only known that tart five minutes. How dare he? That scumbag.”

  Isobel waddled up the path, puffing due to the 20kg she had put on. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Isobel ignored the cutesy sparrow shaped doorbell and barged her way inside. Aaron and Madeline were at it on the couch in the front room. Sobbing, Isobel ran to Aaron and dragged him away.

  “How could you?!” she screeched. “How could you betray me like this?!”

  Aaron looked furtive.

  “Look sweetheart. You don't put out anymore, you've gained 20kg, you're in love with your chocolate and I've grown fond of Madeline.”

  “You've only known her two seconds!!”

  “I'm just…just not in love with you anymore.”

  “You'll pay for this!”

  Isobel burst into tears then stormed from the building, slamming the door behind her.

  Isobel's tears hardened and turned to a thirst for revenge. Karen gave her the name of the country's best divorce lawyer and Isobel contacted her.

  “I want everything” she said at the initial meeting. “As much as I can get. That swine was an insurance salesman and he earned a small fortune every year. I'm after the money. And
the house – I want the house.”

  “On the grounds of infidelity, we can work it so you get a packet. I only ask for 30% commission,” said the lawyer.

  “Deal”, agreed Isobel.

  The settlement came through and Isobel got the house. She also got fifty thousand dollars, leaving Aaron with his car and five grand in the bank. Aaron was furious but consoled himself in the knowledge that he had Madeline to lean on.

  Aaron found a flat on his own, but spent a lot of time at Madeline's place. At first, he didn't think there was anything too unusual about her, but then he began noticing that she always ate hot chillis for breakfast, after he'd stayed the night and always had the fire on, even in the middle of summer. She drove a red sports car, fast. Too fast for Aaron who would be cowering in the passenger seat, saying slow down, honey, slow down, as Madeline ripped through the 50km zone at 90km per hour. She went 140km on the motorways but never seemed to get speeding tickets. It was as if she had made some infernal pact with the traffic cops of the city. She dumped him three months into the relationship saying he was too boring for her and Aaron was left alone and lonely in his one bedroom flat, living off beer and takeaway pizza. He'd never learned to cook.

  The devil put two ticks in the checkboxes next to lust and greed, beside Aaron and Isobel's names. He turned to the dark angel Steel and said, 'Two down, five to go.'

  * * *

  The quarter acre section in Lower Hutt was selling cheap. Not for the first time, Don's profession came in handy and he was able to build their house himself, a labour of love, a three bedroom weatherboard A frame number with aluminium windows. Don and Marsha moved in together when they were in their early twenties. They were in love, arguments were rare and they cohabited happily together. Marsha had been frank with Don about her medical condition and he was aware that as it progressed he might have to become her caregiver. She already had difficulty walking due to the fact that she had banged her hip, but she got around by swinging one leg out wide as she went. They were frighteningly traditional. Don paid the bills; Marsha cooked the meals and took care of the housework. She did not complain much about her condition. Her mother had sheltered her from full knowledge, but she had been to the library and found an encyclopaedia article on the disorder so she knew some of what lay in store for her.

  Unrelated but additional to Marsha's condition, there were fertility problems. They tried and they tried but they could not conceive. Unsure as to whether the problem lay with Don or Marsha, the two of them went together to the family doctor. Don provided semen for analysis, booked in for a testicular biopsy and had a blood test to determine his testosterone level. Marsha had ovulation and ovarian reserve testing and an X-Ray of her uterus. The results came back. They both had issues. Don's sperm weren't swimming and Marsha's eggs were not maturing as they should.

  They decided to adopt. Together they visited Orlando's Orphanage. The orphanage was run by a strict matron who went by the name of Mrs Hamble. Don and Marsha walked together down the aisles of cots, peering into half-starved sleeping faces, trying to decide who to pick. There were differences of opinion. Don liked the look of this one, Marsha liked the look of that one - it was difficult for them to reach consensus. Most of the kids were crying and had snot running down their faces. At the end of one row, in a cot with one of the sides down lay a child who did not cry, a child who did not scream. This held instant appeal for Marsha, who wanted an easy baby, not somebody who was going to shout the house down. They had a spare room. They could accommodate it. Financially it might be a bit of a struggle, but nothing they couldn't take. At that very moment, at that point in time, there was nothing that Marsha Lee Henry wanted more in the world than to take home an adopted child. But not just any old kid. She wanted a specific sprog, the one in the cot in front of her, the quiet one, the one who did not kick and scream and make a fuss, the one who, although only an infant, knew how to behave itself, knew how to conduct herself in this wicked, terrible, wonderful world.

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  Marsha leaned over and picked up the baby. It smiled up at

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  her with her blue eyes. It gurgled a bit and cooed. Marsha cuddled it closer, wrapping its shawl more tightly around it to keep out the cold and then handed it to Don. Don didn't quite know what to do with it, but at Marsha's prompting he gave it a snuggle and then he too was smitten. Mrs Hamble was standing in the doorway with her hand on her hip.

  “Well”, she said. “Do you want the baby or not?”

  Marsha, who dreaded to think about the abuse that might go on within the four walls of this terrible place, quickly nodded. Marsha named the baby in her mind. Still carrying the baby, they made their way to Mrs Hamble's office. Everything inside was orderly and efficient. Money (quite a lot of it, to Marsha's thinking) was exchanged. Papers were signed. And the baby, the baby, was theirs.

  “A baby!” exclaimed Marsha to Don when they had exited the horrible institution and were outside in the safety of their car. “Just imagine, a baby!”

  A baby to have, a baby to hold. A baby to nurture and attend to, a baby to feed and to rock to sleep at night. A baby to sing sweet lullabies to and to soothe when it woke, crying, from nightmares. Somebody else's baby actually, an unwanted child, a baby that somebody else had, freely, given away. Marsha couldn't imagine why anybody would give away something as precious as a child. Was this child the result of an unwanted pregnancy? Was this baby, heaven forbid, the product of rape? She looked down at the tiny face, wrapped up in its white orphanage blanket, a blanket that was covered in stains. Why on earth would anybody give this baby away? No room at the inn perhaps. No money. Money too tight to mention. She cuddled the baby closer, then stared out the window at the cold dark night, lit only by a few dull stars. It was a cold world, and cruel, thought Marsha. Everything boiled down to money in the end. The root of all things dark and evil. Whatever happened to kindness and compassion?

  They took the baby home, gave it a bottle of formula milk which they had bought in preparation and tucked it into the cot with the pink fluffy blanket covered in ABC lettering that Marsha had picked up cheap from the charity store. She sucked her thumb and settled into sleep, just as if she had always lived with Don and Marsha, in this home, in this street, in this particular suburb, on this island in the South Pacific in this corner of the globe. Marsha looked down at the quietly sleeping form and said “Iris. Let's call her Iris.” Don nodded in agreement. They both left the room.

  Don and Marsha loved Iris unconditionally, just as surely as if she were their own child. Marsha bought her dolls from money she had saved working as a seamstress and Don built her a playhouse for the dolls to play in. He also built her a hut in a fig tree in the backyard, a swing and, when she was a little older, a wooden go-cart for her fifth birthday. Iris, who had been rather unceremoniously dumped on the doorstep of the nearest orphanage when she was two days old, latched onto the warmth and affection now offered her like a limpet clasping onto a rock. There seemed no prospect of her ever letting go. Iris grew quickly and soon Marsha was enrolling her at Chilton James Primary School, where she took a special shine to Miss Sampson, a kindly soul who always let Iris play for extra time in the sandpit and encouraged her in singing and colour painting.

  During these primary school painting sessions, Iris made many vibrant, joyful depictions of her home life; pictures of Marsha pulling a fresh tray of scones from the oven, drawings of Don knocking up a garden shed from old bits of four by two that had been lying around the house. She also drew sketches of Marsha at her Singer sewing machine, running up Iris's outfits; trousers and shirts and skirts. Miss Sampson always praised these paintings, glorified them to the high heavens, which of course made the other infants jealous, envy being one of the most primitive emotions and evident even in very small children. Yes, Iris may have been Miss Sampson's favourite but this very fact didn't make for an easy life. Because of it, she was picked on and bullied. The other kids threw
sand into her eyes in the sandpit, they hit her with sticks and they gave her Chinese burns and snake bites. Miss Sampson would always race to Iris's aid which only made things worse in the long run.

  When Iris told Marsha about the bullying, Marsha was beside herself. She asked Iris for the names of the bullies and Iris told her. To Marsha's disappointment, Don took a harsh stance.

  “It's life in New Zealand”, he declared. “Cold and abusive. Being singled out for special treatment means everybody else hates you. The sooner she gets used to that sort of environment the better.”

  Marsha couldn't believe what Don was saying, yet she knew in her heart of hearts that it was true. What could she do to protect her adopted child from such cruelty? Marsha resolved to go along to the primary school and have a word with Miss Sampson to see if she could be made to understand that it might be best to tone down the favouritism in order that the bullying ease off, or preferably, cease altogether.

  Until this point in time, Marsha hadn't known that small children could be so cruel. She had thought that sadism was reserved for the Hitlers and Pol Pots of history – crazed leaders who gained power and then inflicted their twisted versions of authoritarianism upon their countries or the world – not young kids at primary school. During her own early school years she hadn't known any such unkindness, but then again, she hadn't been teacher's pet either.

  The following Monday, Marsha put on her best trousers and jacket and headed down to the school. She knocked on the door to Miss Sampson's room.

  “Come in.”

  Marsha entered, swinging her leg beside her as she walked. She was used to people staring at her.

  Miss Sampson sat behind a wooden desk. She looked friendly and kind, but Marsha knew she was rather unaware of the damage she was inadvertently inflicting on Iris's life due to her favouritism.