The Housemaid’s Wedding: A Short Story

“What is wrong?”

Enzo looks at me with concern as I struggle with the zipper in the back of the blue dress. I tried the dress on only one week ago, and it was fine. It fit perfectly. So why am I struggling now?

“Can you zip me up?” I ask him.

He jumps off the bed, eager to help. He’s wearing only a pair of boxers, and it distracts me for a moment from my distress about the zipper, but then he is behind me, and the distraction is gone. His fingers linger on the small of my back.

“Last chance for sexy time,” he breathes in my ear.

I’m a little tempted, but I shake my head. “Just zip up the dress.”

That’s when things get real. Enzo tries his best, bless his heart. He struggles to pull up the zipper without ripping the fabric, but nothing is happening. It’s not budging. Over the last week, my stomach has grown to the point where this dress no longer fits.

“I am sorry.” He lowers his hands in defeat. “It does not go.”

I bury my face in my palms and sink down onto our bed. “Oh my God, what am I going to do?”

He frowns. “Another dress?”

I shake my head. “I don’t have anything else that looks good.”

“You look beautiful in everything.”

His voice is so earnest that I want to cry. He’s trying his best to make light of a bad situation, but there’s no fixing it. There’s nothing else in my closet that is wedding appropriate. I had one decent dress to wear today, and now it doesn’t fit me anymore. I can’t afford a second dress. I couldn’t even afford the first dress.

I suppose I could go back to Macy’s and try to exchange it. Except I bought the dress weeks ago, and it seemed to leave more than enough room for growth, so I tossed the receipt. I had no idea I’d suddenly “pop” over the last week. Anyway, I can’t try to return it now—the last thing I want is to go into some store and they accuse me of stealing the dress. What if they call the police? What if I go to jail on my wedding day? That’s even worse than a death threat. Or at least, it’s as bad.

“I really wanted this dress,” is all I say.

“Okay, then.” Enzo sits beside me on the bed and takes my hand in his. “Give me the dress, and I will fix it.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a seamstress.”

His lips twitch. “I know a guy who is a tailor. He owes me favor.”

I am highly skeptical, but what can I do? Either Enzo’s friend will come through, or I will get married in jeans and a T-shirt. Okay, I have a nice skirt and blouse I could wear. But it’s not my pretty blue dress.

Enzo calls his friend right away, who amazingly thinks he can get it done in time for the ceremony, which is now in only three hours. He asks for a bunch of measurements, which Enzo takes using the tape measure from his tool kit. Then he leaves with the numbers scribbled on a scrap of paper, my dress in a plastic bag, and his car keys, promising to be back in half an hour.

Honestly, I don’t understand why I can’t go with him to have the measurements taken by a professional, but Enzo had some convoluted reason why I can’t visit his friend. When he tries to explain it to me in Italian, I give up. It seems impossible that this dress will be ready in time, but I have to admit, Enzo rarely fails me.

While he’s gone, I return to the bathroom to style my hair. You know how some women hire professional stylists to fix their hair prior to their weddings? Well, that does not happen in Casa Calloway. It’s just me and my cheapo curling iron, doing the best we can.

Enzo prefers my hair down, but having it up is more wedding appropriate. Not that there are going to be tons of photos to post all over social media, but what if my parents want to take pictures? Or have pictures of me with them?

Maybe we will get a shot of the entire family together. A family photo. I never thought that would be possible.

I finally opt to leave my hair down, deciding that the appreciative look on Enzo’s face will be worth it. I am careful not to scald myself with the curling iron, which tends to be a bit finicky, and after about half an hour, I have some pretty decent waves going on in my usually pin-straight blond hair. It will be straight again by the evening, but I only need it to last for the next three hours.

As I’m coming out of the bathroom, my phone is ringing where I last left it, which is on the coffee table in the living room. Much like the rest of the furniture in the apartment, we got our coffee table from the curb outside our building, and there’s a book under the left leg to keep it from wobbling. I snatch my phone off the table just before the caller hangs up, and my heart sinks.

It’s that same 718 number.

But on the plus side, Enzo isn’t here to overhear the conversation. So I can feel free to give this guy a piece of my mind without anyone else catching wind of the fact that I am being threatened. I can dish it right back as well as I can take it.

I take a calming breath as I click on the green button to take the call. “Hello?”

“Hello, Millie.” It’s that same harsh whisper, like he’s disguising his voice. “Or should I say goodbye?”

I roll my eyes. “Why would you say goodbye?”

“Because,” he says, “today is going to be the last day of your life.”

“Oh, is that so?” I shoot back, playing along for the moment.

“It’s what you deserve,” he hisses at me. “After the lies you fed to my wife. You ruined my marriage, you bitch.”

I was right—it’s a disgruntled husband. I’m not even the tiniest bit surprised. I have helped a lot of women escape terrible marriages, and along the way, I have made some enemies. It goes with the territory. I wonder who this one is.

“And who is your wife?” I prompt him. I’ll feel better if I know who this guy is.

“My wife was a whore,” he spits out. “She was lucky to have me, but you convinced her otherwise.”

God, this guy is a piece of work.

“I’m sure she’s much better off without you,” I say calmly. “And I suggest you accept it and try to grow from the experience.” I add, “And also, leave me the hell alone.”

“Grow from the experience!” he bursts out. “You have a lot of nerve, Millie Calloway! Women like you are the worst type of people. And I promise, you’re going to pay for what you’ve done.”

I would bet my life savings that this guy is all talk. Of course, it wouldn’t be much of a risk since my bank account is mostly empty, especially after buying that blue dress that no longer fits me. “I don’t think so.”

“Think whatever you’d like,” he says, “but I have a question for you, Millie.”

“Fine.” I grit my teeth, playing along for another second before I hang up on him and block his number. “What’s your question?”

His voice takes on an amused edge. “Have you checked your coat closet since your boyfriend left this morning?”