Free Remote Control by Cheryl Kaye Tardif Page B

it's time you find more work," she persists.
    "I wish you'd stop saying that."
    He moves to the fridge, grabs another beer and waddles back to his recliner. He wipes his perspiring brow with the back of a chubby hand. His fingers look like sausages ready to explode from their casings. Then he reaches into the bowl of popcorn, flops back into his chair and picks up the remote control, thereby completing his exercise regime.
    Beatrice clamps her mouth shut.
    When is the last time I saw him without that godforsaken remote control in hand?
    She remembers. Last spring, they'd taken a plane trip to New Brunswick to visit Harry's ailing mother. It wasn't a cheap trip either; they had to pay for three seats―two for Harry.
    And how long has it been since we've gone to a movie?
    The last time, poor Harry wedged himself into the theatre chair so tightly that it took Beatrice, three attendants and some of that fake butter topping to dislodge him. On the drive home, she saw him wipe his fingers over his greasy jeans and lick each plump digit. It was obscene.
    She misses the old Harry. The slimmer one.
    When's the last time he kissed me or told me he loves me? How long's it been since we made love?
    She shakes her head. Sex is completely out of the question. The last time they tried, she ended up with a dislocated hip and two fractured ribs, not to mention acid reflux symptoms that lingered for days afterward. They even tried to be adventurous, with her on top, but that only made things difficult to locate, and the last thing Beatrice wanted to do was go digging around under the sweaty layers of stomach and between Harry's cellulite-dimpled, thunderous thighs. Plus Harry can't lie on his back for long anyway. He might pass out.
    So why does she stay with him? After all, their daughter is grown and has flown the coop, leaving behind a tired old hen and an obese rooster who has no more "cock-a" in his "doodle-do".
    She watches him now, a longing in her heart, wishing so desperately that he would return to the Harry she once admired and loved. Can it be that that man is gone permanently?
    * * *
    Beatrice recalls the day they were married.
    The wedding was simple and sweet, and it took place a few months after college. Harry, decked out in a three-piece Armani suit that he'd borrowed from his brother, looked like the popular football jock that he was; Beatrice, wearing an elegant white dress cut low in the back, was the class valedictorian. She'd been so happy back then…and so in love. And Harry? Why, he'd literally swept her off her feet in a short five months.
    Now he can barely lift his own feet.
    They'd had such innocent dreams for their future together. She was going to teach wonderful, sweet children to read and write, maybe even homeschool their three equally wonderful and sweet offspring. Harry would own a plumbing company, hiring at least ten contractors, and they'd specialize in new homes. They'd target all the local builders and coax them with special deals. They'd all make a fortune.
    But instead, reality had given her a classroom of unruly, spoiled children, a hectic schedule and one child of her own whom she'd had no time to homeschool. Harry's company lost customers daily because of his poor work ethic and the three contractors he'd hired last fall had all quit. Better pay elsewhere, they'd all said.
    Beatrice catches sight of her reflection in the mirror above the dinette table. What happened to me?
    Her thin lips are pursed in discontent as she flicks a look over her shoulder and stares at the protuberance in the recliner. Things have got to change around here, she thinks.
    She hangs Harry's shirt over a wooden chair. "Goodnight, Harry." She pauses in the doorway.
    In answer, her husband of twenty years points the remote at the television and switches channels.
    Beatrice can't take much more of this.
    She turns away. I wish that things would change.
    Be careful what you wish for, Beatrice.
    * * *
    On this night―the night