When the Husband Grew Wings

THE WIFE THOUGHT THE HUSBAND LACKED SPIRIT. HE WOULD hunch silent over his breakfast in the mornings, hands pale and cold as his cereal, his hair the color of cubicles. They married because the wife thought she could open him up, pull out wild Irish weather. But when she tried she found a map of Cleveland instead. Her days grew long and endless as parades.

So one day the wife sprinkled a little powder over the husband’s cornflakes. It was a special power, meant to make things grow, like spirits, yes, but sometimes eyeballs or teeth or toenails. You could never tell with this particular substance, so the wife crossed her fingers as the husband slurped up the powder. Then the husband slumped and fell out of his chair, and as he lay there on the floor, the wife took his pulse. It was sometimes hard to tell if the husband was dead or just lifeless. As she pressed her fingers to his wrist, the wife noticed a faint yellowish smoke hanging over the husband’s back in the vague shape of wings. A pair of wings. Aha, she said.

It took a week for the wings to solidify. Meanwhile, the husband hardly seemed to notice them. He made room for them when he sat, true, and at night he started sleeping on his side, but he never said a word about his wings. They mostly stayed folded, a long soft lump under his suit jacket. The wife asked him once if his coworkers noticed anything different about him. He looked at her neck and shrugged, and she couldn’t tell if the shrug meant no or yes or what’s to notice, so she didn’t ask again. She waited to see if he would fly. She started finding excuses to spend time outside, taped pictures of birds and planes in flight to the refrigerator door. She talked about taking up stargazing. But nothing happened. The husband seemed to have no interest at all in his brand-new wings.

One night at dinner, tired of wondering, she asked if he had flown. His weak, wandering eyes grazed her chin, confused. No, he finally said. I haven’t tried. Should I? She nodded, exasperated but eager, and watched as he carefully unbuttoned his shirt, lifted his undershirt over his head, arched his back and let his wings slowly unfold. He looked surprised as the feathers fluttered, air currents stirred, but he lifted himself above the kitchen tile. He went up until he bumped against the plaster ceiling. Then he drifted back down to the ground, somewhat awkwardly. He folded the wings away, put on his undershirt and shirt again, and sat down. He picked up his fork. He frowned.

I really can’t see the point, he said.

Of what, asked the wife.

Of wings, said the husband.

So the next morning, she sprinkled a little powder over her own cornflakes. It didn’t hurt much—a little pulling and aching, like teeth coming in. After the husband went to work, she took off her shirt and stared. The wings were cream-colored, shot through with lilac and soft brown. She marveled at their loveliness, and how easily they moved with her, how gracefully they spanned her shoulder blades. She flexed them, tested them, felt the wind move through them powerful as engines.

And then, she flew away.